Reigh Kaufman
06-30-2009, 10:55 AM
IKEA.
IKEA.
IKEA.
You say it a million times, it never loses its meaning. IKEA.
Here is the thing about IKEA. IKEA rewards you for the endurance test it puts you through by cleverly placing a hotdog stand just behind the tills. You see the hotdog and you notice the price and you think, 'I just fucking survived IKEA - I want...nay, I fucking DESERVE a hotdog!'. Here's the other thing, though. IKEA is like I imagine childbirth to be. It feels long even if it is actually very short, it is very painful, and afterward you are stuck with something that looked good in the magazines you bought, but is actually squat and ugly and really rather impractical for your lifestyle needs. But still, you forget, and because of the dysfunctional memory reflex you don't recall how disgusting the hotdog reward actually is. So you order two of the fuckers - they're so cheap - and then you have to smother them with mustard and ketchup to take the taste of death off your tongue.
Now you have a problem.
You wanted to reward yourself, but the reward is disgusting - so you need another treat. That's when you notice they have DAIM bars and pear cider! What is up with the Swedish that they offer two horribly useless products to the departing shopper? What use does anyone have for pear cider and Daim bars (which is really a fucking Dime bar) in the car on the way home? "I'm hot and stressed from the ordeal of shopping at IKEA. Think I'll just kick back with a can of pear cider and a Dime bar; take my mind of the kids fighting in the back while I drive home".
Home. Shit, there's a whole new challenge.
See, IKEA is essentially a psychology test that takes place in two stages: the warehouse/shop and your home.
Remember that scene in Clerks where the customers are asked to leave the correct change and they act accordingly because they fear it is a trick and they are actually being secretly watched to see if they are honest people?
IKEA is just like that. They have NO FUCKING staff. Look around, man...everyone is a customer: that is why they all have that same desperate, maniacal glint in their eye. They are just like YOU. They ARE you.
IKEA has no staff on the shop floor, and the virgin shopper may be forgiven for thinking that you are actually in the furnishing equivalent of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. What happened to all the staff, you wonder? Did the Vermicious Knids gobble them all up? (Which seems plausible, if you have ever tasted their hotdogs). And if you have a question, you have to go all the way to the exit, where the tills are, to ask somebody, meaning you have essentially gone back to the beginning of your ordeal.
For, you see, IKEA is a one-way system. You start at one end and follow a predetermined path that leads you all the way to those hotdogs. Deviating from this course will make you look like an idiot and you start to unsettle the rest of the herd who are following this tried and tested system with a look of steely determination. (Oh, and one more thing for those of you who don't want to look out of place: IKEA insist that you carry one of their pencils around so that you can make notes on everything you see; do not be a fool and forget to collect your pencil as soon as you arrive).
Now, suppose you do see something you like. This is furniture we're talking about, right? Some of this stuff is heavy.
IKEA says, 'FUCK YOU!'
See, you have to make a note not only of what you like but where in the warehouse it is kept. Then you have to find it, and - this is my favourite part - load it on to a trolley which is roughly the size of your basic supermarket trolley. That's right - even if it is the size of a fucking shed, you have to put your furniture on to a small trolley and then wibble-wobble your way to the check-out without allowing the item to fall and squish a small child! If you manage that magnificent feat, you have to wait for half an hour because - yup - no fucking staff.
Then you get home. You're a bit tipsy on pear cider, but basically the Daim/Dime bar has soaked most of that up. 'Right, let's build this fucker!', you say with somewhat drunken bravado.
IKEA does actually supply diagrams. Honestly, they do. However the diagrams are to schematics as Lady Gaga is to Beethoven. They are literally stick drawings and geometric shapes that have a big X to tell you what not to do, but not one written word of explanation as to how to begin. Swedish people, you see, communicate using only spastic doodles.
Four phonecalls to customer service later - including the inevitable, 'There's a part missing, can you send it out to me?' - and the flat-packed furniture now looks like EVERY OTHER PIECE OF FURNITURE IN EVERY HOME EVER.
IKEA, you see, only make cheap, generic crap that removes individuality and replaces it with uniformity so austere that a house visit to your friends is literally like going into your own front room but you have to hold in your farts. (Because it is impolite to fart in your friends' home).
And the funny thing is, when you go to IKEA you can never leave without buying something. Even if it is a scented candle, you feel obliged to pay for something you either don't want or don't need. Something akin to shame or guilt makes you purchase an ice-cube tray even though you got one free with your own fucking refigerator.
How weird is that?
So, yeah.
Fuck IKEA!
IKEA.
IKEA.
You say it a million times, it never loses its meaning. IKEA.
Here is the thing about IKEA. IKEA rewards you for the endurance test it puts you through by cleverly placing a hotdog stand just behind the tills. You see the hotdog and you notice the price and you think, 'I just fucking survived IKEA - I want...nay, I fucking DESERVE a hotdog!'. Here's the other thing, though. IKEA is like I imagine childbirth to be. It feels long even if it is actually very short, it is very painful, and afterward you are stuck with something that looked good in the magazines you bought, but is actually squat and ugly and really rather impractical for your lifestyle needs. But still, you forget, and because of the dysfunctional memory reflex you don't recall how disgusting the hotdog reward actually is. So you order two of the fuckers - they're so cheap - and then you have to smother them with mustard and ketchup to take the taste of death off your tongue.
Now you have a problem.
You wanted to reward yourself, but the reward is disgusting - so you need another treat. That's when you notice they have DAIM bars and pear cider! What is up with the Swedish that they offer two horribly useless products to the departing shopper? What use does anyone have for pear cider and Daim bars (which is really a fucking Dime bar) in the car on the way home? "I'm hot and stressed from the ordeal of shopping at IKEA. Think I'll just kick back with a can of pear cider and a Dime bar; take my mind of the kids fighting in the back while I drive home".
Home. Shit, there's a whole new challenge.
See, IKEA is essentially a psychology test that takes place in two stages: the warehouse/shop and your home.
Remember that scene in Clerks where the customers are asked to leave the correct change and they act accordingly because they fear it is a trick and they are actually being secretly watched to see if they are honest people?
IKEA is just like that. They have NO FUCKING staff. Look around, man...everyone is a customer: that is why they all have that same desperate, maniacal glint in their eye. They are just like YOU. They ARE you.
IKEA has no staff on the shop floor, and the virgin shopper may be forgiven for thinking that you are actually in the furnishing equivalent of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. What happened to all the staff, you wonder? Did the Vermicious Knids gobble them all up? (Which seems plausible, if you have ever tasted their hotdogs). And if you have a question, you have to go all the way to the exit, where the tills are, to ask somebody, meaning you have essentially gone back to the beginning of your ordeal.
For, you see, IKEA is a one-way system. You start at one end and follow a predetermined path that leads you all the way to those hotdogs. Deviating from this course will make you look like an idiot and you start to unsettle the rest of the herd who are following this tried and tested system with a look of steely determination. (Oh, and one more thing for those of you who don't want to look out of place: IKEA insist that you carry one of their pencils around so that you can make notes on everything you see; do not be a fool and forget to collect your pencil as soon as you arrive).
Now, suppose you do see something you like. This is furniture we're talking about, right? Some of this stuff is heavy.
IKEA says, 'FUCK YOU!'
See, you have to make a note not only of what you like but where in the warehouse it is kept. Then you have to find it, and - this is my favourite part - load it on to a trolley which is roughly the size of your basic supermarket trolley. That's right - even if it is the size of a fucking shed, you have to put your furniture on to a small trolley and then wibble-wobble your way to the check-out without allowing the item to fall and squish a small child! If you manage that magnificent feat, you have to wait for half an hour because - yup - no fucking staff.
Then you get home. You're a bit tipsy on pear cider, but basically the Daim/Dime bar has soaked most of that up. 'Right, let's build this fucker!', you say with somewhat drunken bravado.
IKEA does actually supply diagrams. Honestly, they do. However the diagrams are to schematics as Lady Gaga is to Beethoven. They are literally stick drawings and geometric shapes that have a big X to tell you what not to do, but not one written word of explanation as to how to begin. Swedish people, you see, communicate using only spastic doodles.
Four phonecalls to customer service later - including the inevitable, 'There's a part missing, can you send it out to me?' - and the flat-packed furniture now looks like EVERY OTHER PIECE OF FURNITURE IN EVERY HOME EVER.
IKEA, you see, only make cheap, generic crap that removes individuality and replaces it with uniformity so austere that a house visit to your friends is literally like going into your own front room but you have to hold in your farts. (Because it is impolite to fart in your friends' home).
And the funny thing is, when you go to IKEA you can never leave without buying something. Even if it is a scented candle, you feel obliged to pay for something you either don't want or don't need. Something akin to shame or guilt makes you purchase an ice-cube tray even though you got one free with your own fucking refigerator.
How weird is that?
So, yeah.
Fuck IKEA!