A photo of Pete the cat

Pete's Toy Box: Russ Berrie

Russ Berrie Vintage Troll Doll Orange Haired 4.5 Inches

By: Russ

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with what appears to be a small, unpleasantly rigid homunculus with a follicular condition of alarming proportions. This 'Russ' creature, a relic from some bygone human era, is clearly not designed for a predator of my caliber. Its plastic form offers no satisfying give for my claws, and its primary function seems to be staring blankly from a shelf. The only conceivable point of interest is the eruption of orange fur from its head, which might, under extreme duress of boredom, warrant a tentative bat. Otherwise, it's a complete waste of space that could be better occupied by a well-made felt mouse or, more importantly, me.

Key Features

  • 4.5 inches tall not including hair / with hair 7" tall
  • Identifying mark Russ on bottom of foot
  • Russ Berrie
  • Orange hair and brown eyes

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It arrived not in a crinkling bag or a promising cardboard box, but in the Human's own hand, held aloft like a strange, dusty scepter. She placed it on the mantelpiece, a new idol among the framed pictures and glass baubles. I observed it from the safety of the Persian rug, my tail giving a slow, judgmental thump-thump-thump against the floor. It was a grotesque little effigy, all naked plastic and a shock of sunset-orange hair that defied gravity and good taste. Its brown eyes, flat and lifeless, seemed to stare directly into the part of my soul reserved for judging inadequate food portions. For a day, we were locked in a silent war of attrition. I would nap with one eye cracked open, watching it. It would stand there, doing nothing, its stillness a profound insult. Was this a test? A guardian sent to oversee my napping schedule? Its scent was alien—a mix of ancient dust, the faint aroma of a basement, and something synthetic that pricked at my nostrils. It was not prey. It was not friend. It was an anomaly, a punctuation mark in the otherwise perfect sentence of my living room. On the second night, under the cloak of a moonbeam that sliced across the mantel, I made my move. I leaped silently from the armchair to the bookshelf, and then with a twitch of my haunches, to the mantel itself. I was now face-to-face with the gargoyle. I ignored its vacant stare and focused on the true prize: the hair. It looked like a tiny, flammable bush. I extended a single, perfect white paw and gently patted the orange tuft. It was stiff, coarse, and deeply unsatisfying, like stroking a broom. There was no life to it, no joyful spring-back of a worthy opponent. It was just… there. I gave it one more exploratory tap, confirming its utter lack of playability. With a sigh that ruffled my whiskers, I turned my back on it, leaving the stoic little statue to its silent, boring vigil. It was not a toy; it was furniture. And I do not play with the furniture.
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Russ Magenta Pink Haired Troll Doll 4.5" Tall with Hair 6" Tall

By: Russ

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has procured another bauble, this one a grotesque little plastic goblin from a maker named Russ. Its most prominent feature is an explosion of stiff, magenta-colored hair that stands on end as if it has just witnessed some unspeakable horror, which, given its permanent residence in this house, it likely has. The body is small, hard, and utterly unchewable. I suppose its lightweight nature makes it an ideal candidate for being knocked from a high shelf—a consistently amusing pastime—but it lacks any inherent appeal. It doesn't crinkle, it doesn't squeak, and it most certainly does not contain the glorious aroma of catnip. This is not a toy; this is a dust-collecting idol for my staff's bizarre, nostalgic rituals, and a complete waste of my predatory energies.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It appeared one Tuesday, placed upon the highest shelf of the great wooden monolith where the human keeps their bound stacks of paper. I observed it from the safety of the chaise lounge, my tail twitching in silent inquiry. It was a silent, squat creature with a wild mane the color of a sunset gone wrong. It didn't move. It didn't breathe. It simply stared out over my domain with wide, glassy eyes, a fixed and unnerving grin plastered on its face. This was no mere plaything. This was a challenge. A territorial claim. That night, under the silver glow of a partial moon filtering through the blinds, I began my reconnaissance. I moved with the liquid grace befitting my station, a grey and white shadow ascending the furniture until I was level with the interloper. The air around it was sterile, smelling of plastic and the faint, dusty scent of the past. Its hair, which looked so flamboyant from a distance, was coarse and prickly to my sensitive whiskers. I extended a single, perfect white paw and gave its head a firm *thwack*. It wobbled precariously, its grin unchanging, before settling back into its silent vigil. Audacious. I spent another hour observing it, trying to decipher its purpose. It was not prey. It was not a friend. It was... a jester. A court fool placed here for my amusement. Its absurd appearance, its stubborn immobility, its silent mockery—it was all a performance. The human thought this would entertain me? They underestimated my intellect. This was not a toy to be chased, but a spectacle to be judged. A silent, one-gnome comedy act. My final verdict came as the first rays of dawn painted the room in soft light. The creature was beneath my notice as an adversary, but it served a minor, decorative purpose as a symbol of my human's folly. I could not be bothered to grant it the dignity of destruction. Instead, I turned my back to it, leaped gracefully from the shelf, and curled up on the human’s pillow. The troll could keep its perch and its silent, plastic vigil. My naps, after all, were far more important than a one-sided feud with a piece of kitsch. It was, in the end, unworthy.
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Russ Berrie Cranwell - Mobear - 4"

By: Russ

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in their infinite and often baffling wisdom, has procured what appears to be a miniature, overdressed bear. The brand, Russ, touts its "expressive crystal eyes" and hand-stitched clothing, which I suppose is meant to impress someone, though it is lost on me. This "Mobear" is clearly intended to be a static, shelf-dwelling 'collectible' rather than a true participant in the grand theater of my amusement. Its diminutive four-inch stature makes it a theoretically ideal candidate for a swift batting-under-the-sofa maneuver, and its felt hat could provide a moment's satisfying shredding. However, I suspect its lack of catnip, crinkle, or any dynamic quality whatsoever means it will ultimately be a tragic waste of my finely honed predatory skills.

Key Features

  • Why Russ? Expressive crystal eyes are carefully selected to define specific breeds and personalities Quality notions and accessories are chosen to compliment the costume Clothing is hand cut and sewn from coordinated fabrics in fine clothing tradition Facial expressions are hand sewn to ensure a special look and feeling Customized expressions are created with skillfully hand-stitched and airbrushed features Highest quality m

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The dame—my human—dropped him on my turf. Right on the edge of the Persian rug, the part of my territory that catches the moonlight just so. He was small, but he had a presence. A cheap felt fedora pulled low, a trench coat that had seen better days, and those eyes... those "expressive crystal eyes" they talk about in the files. Cold, glassy, telling me nothing and seeing everything. He thought he could just move in, a silent partner taking up valuable real estate. He thought wrong. I circled him once, slow. I let my tail, a gray plume of judgment, trace a line in the dust around him. "So," I began, my voice a low rumble that usually precedes a demand for salmon. "Cranwell. That's the name on the street?" He said nothing. A real tough nut. His hand-sewn expression was a permanent, unnerving smirk. I lowered my head, my white tuxedo immaculate against the dark wool of the rug, and stared him down. He didn’t flinch. This one had nerve, I’ll give him that. So I decided to lean on him a little. A gentle, testing tap with a single, unsheathed claw to the fedora. It wobbled precariously. "You're a long way from the toy bin, pal," I purred, the sound full of menace. "What's your game? What are you holding?" I gave him a more insistent nudge with my nose. He toppled over with a soft, unsatisfying thud. Pathetic. All dressed up and no substance. I sniffed him, checking for hidden contraband—catnip, a silvervine scent, anything. Nothing. Just the faint, stale smell of a warehouse. I picked him up by his flimsy coat—not "fine clothing tradition" so much as hastily assembled—and gave him a good shake. No rattle. No secrets. Just fluff. The most boring kind of stuffing. This wasn't a mobster. This wasn't even a worthy adversary. He was a prop, an overdressed dust-catcher destined for a life on the mantelpiece, watching me nap. I dropped him, face down in disgrace. Some cases aren't worth solving. This one wasn't even worth opening. I turned my back and began meticulously grooming a perfectly clean patch of fur, the ultimate insult. The case of the Mobear was closed.
Image of Russ Berrie Cranwell - Mobear - 4" View Details

Russ Berrie My Lucky 1950's Poodle Skirt 6" Troll Doll (Pink Hair)

By: Russ

Pete's Expert Summary

My human, in her infinite and often baffling wisdom, has presented me with this... artifact. It appears to be a small, grotesque effigy of a bipedal creature, notable for its vacant stare, an absurd explosion of synthetic pink fluff atop its head, and a flimsy felt garment that seems to serve no purpose. Clearly, this is some sort of "nostalgia" totem for the human, a relic from a time when taste was apparently optional. Its only potential redeeming quality is that ridiculous tuft of hair, which looks just fibrous enough to provide a satisfying tooth-feel. The hard plastic body offers no purchase for my claws, and the whole thing reeks of a factory. I suspect its primary function will be to gather dust on a shelf, a fate I wouldn't waste a whisker protesting.

Key Features

  • 4" body, 6" total height with hair included

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The operation was clearly a setup. The Human, my supposed handler, placed the target in the middle of the neutral zone—the living room rug—and retreated, her face a mask of saccharine expectation. The asset was small, maybe six inches tall if you counted the outlandish pink coiffure, which I did. It was a beacon, a distraction. Its disguise was a crude nod to some forgotten human cultural moment: a "poodle skirt," whatever that meant. The poodle stitched onto it looked as unimpressed as I was. This was too obvious. It was a test. I began my reconnaissance, circling the subject at a distance of three feet. It remained motionless, its wide, painted eyes staring into a dimension I couldn't perceive. It offered no sound, no scent other than sterile plastic. A professional. I closed the distance, extending a single, cautious paw. I tapped its foot. Nothing. I tapped its head, making the absurd pink hair wobble. Still nothing. The silence was unnerving. This wasn't some jittery catnip mouse or a frantic feather wand; this was a stoic, silent operative, deployed to gauge my reaction. My patience, a notoriously finite resource, wore thin. If it wouldn't reveal its purpose, I would extract it. I abandoned subtlety and launched a full-scale assault, hooking the pink hair with my claws and dragging the silent little spy across the Berber carpet. I expected a struggle, a sound, a hidden mechanism to activate. Instead, it just tumbled along, a willing captive. I pinned it with my front paws, lowered my head, and took a tentative bite of the hair. It was... surprisingly pleasant. A dense, fibrous texture that yielded to my teeth without falling apart. After several minutes of vigorous "interrogation," I came to a conclusion. This was no master spy. It was a patsy, a fool sent in to be captured. Its entire existence was a farce. Yet, I couldn't deny its utility. As a silent companion for my afternoon patrol, it was useless. As an object of intellectual stimulation, it was an insult. But as a thing to chew on when the Human is being particularly slow with dinner? Acceptable. The poodle-skirted troll would not be my nemesis, nor my confidant. It would simply be a recurring victim of my boredom, a silent testament to my handler's bizarre and questionable taste in operatives. I'll allow it to remain in my territory. For now.
Image of Russ Berrie My Lucky 1950's Poodle Skirt 6" Troll Doll (Pink Hair) View Details

My Lucky LIFEGUARD Troll Doll (Pink Hair) by Russ Berrie

By: Unknown Brand

Pete's Expert Summary

So, my human has procured another piece of static, dust-collecting refuse. This one is a small, plastic creature with a disturbingly vacant smile and a shock of garish pink fur erupting from its head like a toxic fungus. It clutches a small red ring, apparently designating it as a "lifeguard," though I suspect its primary function is to fall off a shelf and get lost under the sofa. The hair is the only element of potential, fleeting interest; it might provide a satisfying texture for a brief claw-sharpening session before I grow bored. Ultimately, this appears to be an object of baffling human nostalgia, offering no discernible play value and occupying space that could be better utilized by, for instance, me.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

It arrived on a Tuesday, a day already marred by the indignity of the vacuum cleaner's roar. The Human placed it on the floor with a soft coo, and I observed this new idol from my strategic position under the coffee table. It was an affront to aesthetics and gravity, a plastic homunculus whose pink hair defied all known laws of physics. It smelled faintly of a factory and disappointment. I flicked an ear in disgust and began a deep, methodical cleaning of my shoulder, the ultimate expression of feline disapproval. It was not a toy; it was a silent, grinning insult. Later that evening, a strange torpor fell over me. I wasn't merely sleeping; I was adrift on a vast, quiet sea, the gentle rocking of which was the Human's own breathing from the couch. In my dream-state, the sea grew choppy. The floorboards of the house became a dark, churning ocean, and my favorite velvet armchair, my throne, was an island about to be swallowed by the tide. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle through my fur. I was stranded, a monarch about to be deposed by a domestic tsunami. Then, I saw it. A small figure, standing firm on the edge of the surging rug-tide. The Lifeguard. Its pink hair blazed like a beacon in the dream-dusk, and its cheap plastic life preserver seemed to glow with an absurd, potent magic. It didn't move. It simply stood its ground, its painted-on smile a mask of grim, unyielding duty. As I watched, its sheer, static presence seemed to calm the waters. The churning lessened, the waves receded, and my armchair-island was safe once more. The Lifeguard had held back the tide of my anxiety. I awoke with a twitch of my tail. The house was silent, the armchair secure. The troll doll sat exactly where the Human had left it, looking just as ridiculous as before. I padded over to it, my paws silent on the wood floor. I sniffed its plastic head, then gently nudged its little red flotation device with my nose. It didn't move, of course. It was just a stupid doll. But as I turned and leaped effortlessly onto my now-safe velvet throne, I cast one last glance at the silent sentinel. It was unworthy of a pounce, a chase, or even a shredding. But it had earned a different kind of respect. It could stay. After all, every kingdom needs its stoic, slightly moronic guardians.
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Russ Berrie Li'l Peepers Shelly Pirate

By: Russ Berrie

Pete's Expert Summary

So, the Human has presented me with a 'Li'l Peepers Shelly Pirate' from the Russ Berrie archives. It appears to be a plush turtle suffering from a delusion of grandeur, complete with a permanently affixed pirate hat and eye patch. Its 'baby safe' construction suggests a high degree of softness, which might be suitable for a vigorous session of bunny-kicking or perhaps as a strategically placed chin rest. The 9.5-inch size is respectable, making it a decent opponent. However, its complete lack of movement, sound, or catnip infusion makes me question its long-term playability. It seems destined to be either a glorified pillow or another piece of floor clutter I must artfully navigate on my way to the food bowl.

Key Features

  • Pirates hat and eye patch are tacked (stitched) on in spots to keep from falling off
  • Measures 9.5" long
  • Baby safe
  • Surface washable
  • A sure hit for hours of imiginary fun

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The Human placed the suspect on the high-pile shag carpet, a neutral territory. Code name: Shelly. Allegiance: Pirate. I circled it once, my immaculate gray and white tuxedo fur creating a gentle stir in the air. The suspect remained silent, its oversized, glassy eyes staring into the middle distance, betraying nothing. The felt hat and eye patch were tacked on, a crude but effective disguise to prevent easy removal. Amateurs. This wasn't just a toy; this was an infiltrator. I lowered myself, belly to the rug, and stared directly into its left eye—the good one. "Alright, Shelly," I subvocalized, my purr a low, menacing rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "Who sent you? Was it the dog next door? The squirrels in the oak tree? What treasure are you after? The laser pointer's hidden red jewel?" The suspect offered no confession. Its plush, green exterior felt… surprisingly yielding under my probing paw. Soft. "Baby safe," they called it. A clever tactic to inspire a false sense of security. Words were getting me nowhere. It was time for advanced techniques. I launched myself, wrapping all four paws around its soft, shelled body in the classic 'Grip of Ultimate Disembowelment.' I brought my back legs into play, a furious barrage of bunny-kicks against its plump side. Still, the pirate stared forward, stoic, unflinching. It absorbed every blow, offering no resistance, only a silent, pillowy acceptance. It was a worthy adversary, a true professional. Exhausted, I released my quarry. The pirate turtle lay on its side, hat slightly askew but still attached. It hadn't cracked. But in its silence, I found my answer. This wasn't an enemy agent. This was a sparring partner. A confidant who would never reveal my secrets. A silent, steadfast quartermaster for my naps. I curled up against its soft shell, laying my head just below its jaunty hat, my tail giving a slow, deliberate thump-thump of approval. The interrogation was over. Shelly the Pirate could stay. For now.
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My Lucky 1950's Poodle Skirt 6 Troll Doll (Hot Pink Hair) by Russ Berrie

By: Russ

Pete's Expert Summary

So, the Human has brought home another piece of shelf-clutter, this time a small, plastic effigy with a grotesque grin and a shock of violently pink fur that defies both gravity and good taste. They call it a "Troll Doll," apparently a relic from a time when human aesthetics were even more questionable than they are now. It's dressed in a felt skirt, which might offer a moment's shredding satisfaction, but the hard, unyielding plastic body promises a deeply unsatisfying batting experience. The only potential point of interest is that unnerving plume of synthetic hair. It might, with the right application of claw, provide a brief distraction, but I suspect this "toy" is destined to do little more than gather dust and judge me silently from its perch.

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The crime scene was the pot of the forbidden fern; the evidence, a single, incriminating leaf on my white bib. The Human had made a sound of disapproval, a low "Pete...," and then, with a sigh, placed The Witness on the mantelpiece. It stared down at the room, its vacant, glassy eyes seeing everything, its frozen, idiotic grin a mask of silent accusation. I knew, with the certainty of a predator, that it had seen me commit the act of botanical terrorism. Its silence could not be trusted. That evening, under the cloak of the soft lamp glow, I made my move. A fluid leap, a silent landing. I was now on its level. I padded slowly toward it, my tail a low, metronomic warning. "We need to have a little chat," I purred, the sound a low rumble in my chest. The troll said nothing, its hot pink hair a defiant explosion of color in the dim light. I nudged it with my nose. Hard plastic. No give. No fear. This was going to be more difficult than I thought. "You saw something," I stated, circling it. "You saw a fern that had it coming. A fern that was flaunting its leafy greens in a manner unbecoming of a houseplant." I leaned in close, my whiskers nearly brushing its painted-on cheek. "And you're going to keep that information under your ridiculous little poodle skirt. Aren't you?" I gave its head a sharp pat with my paw. The entire thing wobbled precariously, its synthetic hair rustling. A small tuft came loose, a pathetic pink offering. I stared at the flimsy piece of fuzz on my paw, then back at the doll. It was all a facade. The defiant hair, the smug grin—it was nothing. All fluff and no spine. It wasn't a worthy adversary, nor an entertaining plaything. It was simply a silent, flimsy snitch that couldn't even hold itself together under light questioning. I turned my back on it, leaving it to its wobbly vigil. It would keep my secret, not out of loyalty, but out of sheer, inanimate incompetence. And for that, I suppose, it had earned its place on the mantel. For now.
Image of My Lucky 1950's Poodle Skirt 6 Troll Doll (Hot Pink Hair) by Russ Berrie View Details

Russ Berrie: Bobble Guyz Firefighter Figurine

By: bobble

Pete's Expert Summary

My human has presented me with a "Bobble Guyz Firefighter Figurine," a rather garish little man with a disproportionately large head permanently affixed to a spring. Its sole purpose, it seems, is to nod inanely when prodded. While the "joyous wobble" might amuse a simple-minded kitten or a particularly dull human, I see it for what it is: a static dust-collector. The potential for a satisfying hunt is zero, its texture is a hard, unappealing plastic, and its silent judgment from the corner of the desk is frankly unsettling. It offers nothing to a feline of my caliber and is, at best, a stationary obstacle between me and a prime sunbeam.

Key Features

  • Spring mounted figure wobbles joyously
  • For the house, the office or car this humorous figure will make you laugh everytime

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The Human placed the new idol on her desk, a sacred space usually reserved for the warm, humming light-box and various gravity-testing instruments like pens and paperclips. This new thing was a small, plastic effigy of one of their kind, dressed in the loud yellow costume of a fire-wrangler. Its head, grotesquely large for its body, stared into the middle distance with a vacant, painted-on smile. I watched from the comfort of my favorite armchair, tail twitching in mild irritation. It was an unwelcome addition to my domain, and its silence was, frankly, suspicious. Eventually, my curiosity superseded my disdain. I made a silent, graceful leap onto the desk, my paws making no sound on the polished wood. I approached the little man, sniffing the air. It smelled of nothing but chemicals and a warehouse. I stared into its unblinking eyes, trying to assert my dominance with a gaze that has made even the mail carrier flinch. It stared back, unmoved. I extended a single, perfect claw from my gray paw and gave its oversized helmet a delicate tap. Its head began to nod, a frantic, jerky motion, as if agreeing with some silent, terrible proclamation. I sat back on my haunches, profoundly disturbed. This was not play. This was a glimpse into some sort of plastic purgatory. The Human called this a "humorous figure" that "wobbles joyously." Joyously? This thing knew nothing of joy. Joy is the warmth of a sunbeam on my tuxedo-furred belly, the savory crunch of a well-deserved treat, the sound of the can opener whirring to life. This creature was a prisoner, trapped in a spring-loaded body, forced to agree with the universe for all eternity. Its frantic nodding wasn't joy; it was a desperate, silent scream. I made my decision. This was not a toy to be conquered or a foe to be vanquished. It was an object of pity, a philosophical horror. I could not, in good conscience, engage with it further. I turned my back on the wobbling firefighter and his existential crisis, hopped off the desk, and retired to the living room rug. Some things are too depressing to even bat at. The little man could keep his post, nodding his way into oblivion. I had naps to attend to.
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My Lucky Troll PRIEST Troll Doll (Blue Hair) by Russ Berrie

By: Russ

Pete's Expert Summary

So, my human has presented me with this… effigy. It's a "My Lucky Troll Priest" from a brand called Russ, which sounds vaguely familiar from dusty boxes in the attic. Essentially, it's a small, stout plastic creature with a disturbingly cheerful face, dressed in the somber attire of a human cleric, but crowned with a defiant explosion of bright blue hair. For a being of my refined taste, the primary, and frankly *only*, point of interest is that ridiculous tuft of hair. It stands a full two inches above the creature's head, promising a certain spring-back action if batted correctly. The rest of it, the hard plastic body and unblinking stare, seems entirely useless for pouncing or disemboweling. It appears destined to be a shelf-sitter, a silent judge of my naps, rather than a participant in my glorious hunts.

Key Features

  • 4" body, 6" total height with hair included

A Tale from Pete the Cat

The human placed the grotesque little idol on the mantelpiece, a place I consider my high-altitude observation deck. From my perch on the velvet armchair, I watched it. Its black-and-white vestments were an affront to my own perfectly tailored tuxedo fur, and its painted-on smile was a mockery of true feline contentment. But it was the eyes, black and vacant, that truly unnerved me. They seemed to follow my every move, a silent, plastic confessor judging my every sin—the calculated trip of the clumsy human, the artful shredding of the forbidden roll of paper towels, the midnight theft of a sliver of roast beef. This “priest” knew. It had to. For two days, I endured its silent scrutiny. The bright blue hair, stiff and unnatural, seemed to taunt me, a vibrant halo on a creature of judgment. I could stand it no longer. That night, under the sliver of moonlight filtering through the blinds, I made my move. A graceful leap, a silent landing on the mantel. I was face-to-face with my accuser. I leaned in, sniffing. It smelled of nothing but dust and cheap vinyl. I extended a single, perfect claw and gently tapped its blue coiffure. It was coarse, springy, and profoundly unsatisfying. It felt like batting at a tiny, synthetic broom. I decided on a different approach. I would test its resolve. I stared into its black-dot eyes and confessed, through a series of slow, deliberate blinks, my greatest triumph: the time I managed to lock the dog outside for a full hour during a light drizzle. The troll priest just sat there, wobbling slightly from my proximity, its inane grin unwavering. It offered no penance, no absolution, not even the good grace to topple over and become a proper floor toy. It was nothing. A hollow icon. Disgusted by its lack of interactive depth, I gave its head one last, decisive shove. It tipped, teetered on the edge of the mantel for a dramatic moment, and then plummeted to the plush rug below with a dull thud. It landed upright, still smiling, still judging. My verdict was clear: as a spiritual adversary, it was a failure. As a toy, it was an insult. Its only redeeming quality is the satisfying, albeit brief, arc it makes on its way to the floor. I suppose I can work with that. Every so often.
Image of My Lucky Troll PRIEST Troll Doll (Blue Hair) by Russ Berrie View Details