Every Great Foreman Needs an Incompetent Crew

The thing arrived on a Tuesday, a day usually reserved for sunbeams and serene contemplation of the dust mites dancing within them. The box was a garish orange, an assault on the sophisticated gray-and-white palette of my world. My human presented it to the Small Human, who greeted it with a series of high-pitched noises that set my teeth on edge. He fumbled with the latch and spilled the contents—a cacophony of plastic clicks and clacks—onto my favorite rug. I watched from the arm of the leather chair, my tail twitching in profound disapproval. This was not craftsmanship; this was chaos in a box. The centerpiece of the disaster was a drill-like object. The Small Human jammed batteries into it and pressed the trigger. A low, pathetic whirring sound filled the air, a pale imitation of the intimidating roar of a proper vacuum cleaner. He then picked up a plastic hammer and attempted to pound a plastic screw into a plastic plank. The sheer incompetence was staggering. I could not, in good conscience, allow such a flagrant violation of the laws of physics and basic engineering to continue unanswered in my own living room. With a sigh that conveyed the immense burden of my intelligence, I leaped gracefully to the floor. I strode into the middle of the construction zone, my presence immediately commanding a halt to the clumsy proceedings. I sniffed at the drill bit, a flimsy Phillips head, and gave the Small Human a look of withering contempt. Then, with a deft flick of my paw, I batted the flathead bit out of the pile and nudged it toward him. My meaning was clear: *Use this one, you amateur.* I then tapped the pre-drilled hole on the plastic plank where the screw was obviously intended to go. He stared, his mouth slightly agape, then slowly picked up the pieces I had indicated. Under my silent, strict supervision, a structure began to form. It was lopsided and utterly useless, but the process was orderly. A sharp meow corrected a misplaced bolt; a tail-flick dismissed the ridiculous plastic goggles. The Small Human, my new, unpaid apprentice, followed my lead. We were no longer playing. We were *building*. When the final piece was clumsily slotted into place, I inspected our work. It was terrible, of course, but it was *our* terrible work. I gave a short, curt nod of approval, not for the object, but for the successful transfer of my superior will. This Deejoy set would be permitted to stay. Every great foreman needs a crew to manage, even a crew of one.