By way of Boing Boing, we find this absolutely delightful post: Couch Cushion Architecture; A Critical Analysis.
This example, from the middle of the second page, most closely resembles the typical couch cushion fort assembled in Festung Buckethead on a weekly basis:
Drawing from the saw-tooth roof structures of industrial Europe, the orthogonal volume cleverly employs a swing hinge access door, popularized by the mid-century modern masters. Grade: B+
Given the materials at hand, that’s usually the best that gets built. Not that the boy (now 7) doesn’t occasionally get more ambitious. However, hubris has the same tragic end in our house as it did in ancient Greece – the boy’s younger sisters are every ready to follow the the poet:
Quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius
By subtly undermining his efforts, first through work slow-downs and general intransigence, later through competing projects requiring the same materials he needs for his fort (and requiring parental adjudication of resource allocation) the boy becomes increasingly frustrated. Still, he perseveres. Over time, and by overcoming great obstacles, the fort is completed. He has attained to a fragile, precarious sort of satisfaction.
And that’s when his sisters really go after him hammer and tongs. They demand equal use of the fort. Once in the fort, they refuse him entry. If he makes a secondary entrance, they’ll destroy the first. Fixing that, he’ll start to notice problems with the roof. Lifting up a roof cushion to readjust its fit and finish, the girls will kick out the support. They’ll steal the blanket that acts as a sort of glue to keep the cushions in place. They fill the interior with stuffed animals. And then, they’ve dashed it all to pieces.
He comes to me, and presents his litany of fully justified complaints.
And then I tell the boy to stop whining. Because whining is for pussies.