OHHHH BILLY…
I always think that going to Ikea is going to be super fun. I’ll get to look at cool quirky Swedish things. Laugh at the names, enjoy the layouts and chow down on some cheap-o meatballs. BORK BORK BORK!!! Ha! Ha! Oh, those crazy Swedes. AM I RIGHT???
But the combination of fluorescent lighting, regurgitated air, and all the Shovey McShoversons who bring their screaming kids to run rampant amongst the furniture. After all, it’s just one big playground, right?
No, it isn’t. Hit the ball room, punks. Leave the furniture to those who can put it together.
And by the time I reach the lighting section, I am exhausted. I can barely find the energy to continue. My legs… so…heavy… eyelids… closing… the room is spinning… the arrows on the floor keep leading me back to the cabinet section.
How did I end up in a Darren Aronofsky film, and more importantly, HOW do I get out of this EFFING HELL HOLE?? I’m FUKKT!!!!!
