The Bjornholm Beast and the Expert Observer

Sarah wrestled with the Bjornholm Beast, IKEA's most formidable flat-pack wardrobe, its cryptic instructions mocking her from the floor. Just as she considered using a sledgehammer as an 'alternative fastener,' Mark, her perpetually observant coworker, sauntered by.

"Having trouble, Sarah?" he chirped, stating the obvious with the gravitas of a news anchor reporting the sky was blue.

Sarah, mid-grunt, managed, "No, Mark, I'm simply testing the structural integrity of this revolutionary new design where the clothes hang from the floor. It's a cutting-edge approach to gravitational defiance."

Mark squinted. "Looks like you've got the side panel attached to the top panel."

"Oh, *really*?" she deadpanned, raising an eyebrow that could curdle milk. "And here I was thinking it was a new form of abstract art, 'The Exploded Wardrobe.' Your powers of deduction are truly awe-inspiring, Sherlock. What's next? Will you deduce that this screwdriver is for *screws*?"

He chuckled, unbothered. "The instructions usually help, you know."

"Instructions? Ah, yes, those quaint little pictograms depicting mythical creatures known as 'correctly aligned dowels.' I prefer the challenge, Mark. Builds character. And possibly a very expensive modern art sculpture." She finally managed to secure a hinge, albeit upside down. "There! Only 47 more impossible angles to go. Truly, your insightful commentary has been the wind beneath my wings. I'd never have gotten this far without your unwavering support... in pointing out the blindingly obvious." She gave him a sweet, saccharine smile. "Don't worry, I'll send you a picture of the finished 'Beast' when it eventually decides to assume a vaguely wardrobe-like shape. Or collapses into a pile of splinters. Whichever comes first."