Ikea is not a store, Ikea is a big fucking chore.

The parking process is like fucking Disney World, which is annoying to me, as I hate parking…and walking…especially with two kids and a mother who can’t contain herself. She very well may have wet herself at the big gawdy blue and gold Graceland entrance.

Mom, it’s Ikea.

Not the Vatican.

Or a Kenny Loggins concert.

And they don’t serve wine here.

Let’s regain our composure.

Then, they lure you into a moderately priced Swedish wood veneer labyrinth of hell, sidelined with clever minimalism and ergonomic irony. And you just want to find the toddler beds, but you can’t because there are 8 million other tourists in there, with their Ikea maps and little golf pencils, oohing and ahhing over the $2.99 bin of IPod holders.

And when you finally find the shit you went there for, you have to haul your happy ass back downstairs to the warehouse where you try to decipher the code you tried to write down upstairs, but it just looks like a a giant swirl because your kid was screaming for the $12.99 10 foot plush Chinese Dragon that they must have fuckingrightnowikeayouareawhore.

So, you ask for help, but the douche bag emo teenager with a faux hawk working the warehouse that day is distracted by cell phone texting and shiny objects, and you just want to scream for someone to come help the sweaty pregnant lady with two kids and a mother who won’t stop throwing wooden spoons in the cart.

But, no one comes.

They are all upstairs eating organic veggie wraps in the everything is chrome and sterile deli.

Plus, the ABBA music is too loud for anyone to hear you crying.

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