The Ballad of the Zen Master 3000

Kevin, a man whose DIY skills were generally considered a liability rather than an asset, approached the flat-pack box with unwarranted optimism. "Zen Master 3000 Bookshelf," the label purred, promising serenity and organized literature. Kevin, however, suspected it was less Zen and more an elaborate psychological experiment.

He meticulously laid out the 44 identical-but-subtly-different wooden planks, 12 bags of unidentifiable hardware, and an instruction manual written in what he was fairly certain was ancient Sumerian translated via interpretive dance. His first task: attach 'Panel A' to 'Support Beam G' using 'Screw #3'. Kevin, feeling empowered, grabbed what looked like Screw #3. It was not Screw #3. It was probably Screw #7, disguised as a particularly stout Screw #3.

The moment he applied pressure, a crucial dowel pin—which had been holding nothing but his rapidly dwindling hope—sprang free, ricocheting off the ceiling light before landing squarely in his lukewarm tea. "Right," he muttered, now acutely aware of the irony of a "Zen Master" bookshelf inciting such immediate spiritual turmoil.

Things escalated. The hammer, brought out for "persuasion" purposes, slipped, creating a lovely new dent in the pristine 'Top Shelf J'. In a panic, he tried to catch a falling 'Side Panel C', only to trip over a bag of 'Hardware M', sending a cascade of tiny, crucial metal bits scattering across the polished floorboards like a metallic hailstorm. He then kicked the instruction manual, now tea-stained and crumpled, under the sofa, declaring, "Intuition will guide me!" Intuition, it turned out, was a terrible carpenter.

Within an hour, Kevin’s living room resembled the aftermath of a small, localized timber-bomb explosion. The 'bookshelf' now stood (precariously) as a cubist monument to futility, leaning at a jaunty, physics-defying angle, one leg shorter than the others, and a random drawer attached where a shelf should have been. He stared at his creation, which looked less like a bookshelf and more like a nervous, arthritic giraffe attempting to do the splits.

Just as he considered adding a single, artfully placed book, the entire edifice groaned, swayed dramatically, and then collapsed with a sound akin to a hundred wooden dominoes committing collective suicide. Kevin sighed, picked up a splinter, and dialled for pizza. "Pepperoni," he told the operator, "and perhaps a structural engineer."