Pete's Expert Summary
So, the Human has presented me with a pair of Hot Wheels 'Monster Trucks'. As far as my discerning eye can tell, these are diminutive, garishly painted metal contraptions with absurdly large rubber wheels. They are apparently designed for small humans to smash together in some crude reenactment of vehicular combat, a concept that holds zero appeal. While the die-cast metal body might offer a satisfying heft for a solid shove off the coffee table, and the rolling action could provide a moment's distraction between more important napping sessions, I suspect the whole loud, clattering affair is ultimately a waste of my energy, better suited for a creature with a less-developed appreciation for quiet.
Key Features
- With 2 rivals in each pack, the Hot Wheels Monster Trucks Demolition Doubles let kids set up battles for exciting bashing action right out of the box!
- Each die-cast truck is 1:64 scale and the characters have been purposely chosen to make great adversaries in head-to-head battle.
- Hot Wheels Monster Trucks inspire kids to hone their creative storytelling skills through smashing and crashing fun.
- Impeccable details enhance the collectability kids and collectors will want them all. (Each 2-pack sold separately, subject to availability.)
- The set of 2 Monster Trucks makes a great gift for kids 3 years old and older.
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Human placed the two rivals—a garish orange thing and a lurid green one—on the oriental rug, my primary afternoon sunning territory. They sat there, inert and offensive, an affront to the room's otherwise acceptable feng shui. The Human nudged one. It rumbled a few inches across the wool, its fat rubber tires grating on my nerves. I responded with the only appropriate gesture: a slow, deliberate blink of utter indifference before turning my back to groom a perfectly clean patch of my white tuxedo chest. The matter, I assumed, was closed. Later that evening, however, a crisis emerged. A single, perfect, delightfully crunchy kibble bit—one of the good ones from the top of the food pyramid—had escaped my dinner bowl and rolled to a stop just under the lip of the heavy mahogany credenza. I could see it. I could smell it. But the gap was too low for even my most determined paw to reach. I tried the flattened-shoulder approach, the delicate hooked-claw technique, all to no avail. It was an infuriating, tantalizing defeat. As I sat back on my haunches in frustration, my gaze fell upon the abandoned metal invaders. The lurid green truck sat there, dumbly. But then I saw it not as a toy, but as a solution. Its ridiculous, oversized wheels created a significant gap between the floor and its chassis. A plan, brilliant in its simplicity, bloomed in my mind. With the calculated precision of a seasoned hunter, I approached the orange truck. Ignoring its ostentatious flame decals, I used my nose to push it, aligning it perfectly with the path to my lost treasure. With a firm, decisive shove of my head, I sent the truck rolling into the dark space under the credenza. There was a faint *tink* as its metal frame connected with the kibble, followed by the glorious sight of my prize rolling out from the other side. I calmly devoured the liberated morsel, a victor. The truck remained, half-stuck under the furniture. It was not a plaything. It was a crude but effective kibble-retrieval device. For its utility, and for this reason alone, it had earned a temporary reprieve from my disdain. It was, I had to admit, a worthy, if unintentional, servant.