Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to believe my sophisticated intellect would be stimulated by a large, plastic reptile battling a small metal thing on wheels. This "Hot Wheels City T-Rex Blaze Battle" is, in essence, a garish, noisy shrine to repetitive motion. One flings a "car" at a dinosaur to make its eyes spin, knock its teeth out, or get it "eaten" and then... expelled out the back. Frankly, the indignity of that exit route is the most relatable part of the entire ordeal. While the spinning eyes might offer a moment's distraction for a lesser feline, the true value of this contraption lies solely in the potential liberation of the 1:64 scale vehicle, which would make for a superb skitter-toy to bat under the credenza. The rest is simply a waste of perfectly good sunbeam-napping territory.
Key Features
- Take on a hungry T-Rex that has attacked the Hot Wheels City fire station with a 1:64 scale toy car
- The playset features a large-scale dinosaur nemesis that has eyes that spin every time cars whizz past until it gets knocked out
- Launch cars hard enough to spin the eyes and knock out the dino's teeth only to get eaten and then pooped out
- Reload and relaunch, but this time get detoured through the fuel station. Might as well fill up for the next run
- Don't quit now With refueling complete, launch again and get the K.O., saving friends and Hot Wheels City
- As they battle the nemesis, kids learn the importance of persistence and determination
- Kids 4 years old and up will love the challenge of defeating the dinosaur with their Hot Wheels vehicles
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The day the Altar of the Offensive Reptile arrived, I observed the proceedings from my vantage point atop the linen closet, a silent, gray-furred judge. My human, with the focused devotion of a true zealot, assembled the garish plastic structure. A luridly green dinosaur, its mouth agape in a permanent, witless roar, was now the centerpiece of the living room. The human began the ritual, placing a tiny, shiny blue beetle—a "car," he called it—onto a ramp and flicking a lever. The beetle shot forward, whizzed past the reptile's head, and vanished. The human made a noise of frustration. This was clearly a complex and, from what I could see, mostly unsuccessful ceremony. I watched for what felt like an eternity, my tail-tip twitching in metronomic disapproval. The human persisted. He launched the beetle again and again. On one successful attempt, the beast's eyes spun in a dizzying, manic way. The human cheered. On another, the beetle was swallowed whole, only to be unceremoniously dispensed from a crude flap at the monster's base. The human groaned. It was a cargo cult, of that I was certain. My human was performing this repetitive, nonsensical rite in the hopes of appeasing this plastic god and receiving some unknown boon. The spinning eyes were a sign of the god's favor; being consumed and excreted was a mark of its displeasure. When my human finally abandoned his worship for the lesser ritual of making coffee, I descended from my perch. The air still hummed with the energy of his frantic devotion. I approached the altar, sniffing its plastic base. The little blue beetle sat innocently at the launch point. What was the human seeking? More food? A better can opener? There was only one way to understand the divine mechanism. I hopped onto the platform, my soft paws making no sound, and gave the beetle a firm, deliberate pat. It shot down the ramp with surprising speed, looped around, and zipped right past the T-Rex’s face. The eyes spun with a satisfying *whirrrr-click-click-click*. I waited. No magical tuna appeared. No disembodied voice offered me chin scratches. The god was silent. The beetle came to a rest near the edge of the track. I peered at it, then gave it another, harder shove with my paw, sending it flying off the altar entirely. It skittered beautifully across the hardwood floor, a flash of blue against the dark wood. Ah. I understood now. The entire elaborate, noisy ritual was merely a complicated delivery system. The human’s worship was misguided. The great plastic beast wasn't a god to be appeased, but a glorified cage for a perfectly good floor toy. I pounced on the beetle, sending it spinning under the sofa. The altar could keep its spinning eyes and digestive tract; I had claimed its only worthy offering.
