Ikea, Greek God of Go Fuck Yourself
January 27, 2011
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If there’s anything more dehumanizing than the cold, lonely torment of assembling Ikea furniture, that’s only because the North Korean’s haven’t thought of it yet. We have Sweden to thank for the current limits of emasculating torture that one can inflict upon another. Yet, in the depths of assembling a kitchen cart with optional faux-stainless steel top, called something like a KVARRT-FAFRVKN, the name Ikea seems more Greek to me, and oh-so-tragic, as if Ikea were more of a state of being — a hellish one — as well as a physical location one passes by near the river Styx on the road to Hades. I imagine myself the tragic hero in a myth-in-the-making. There, amidst the forlorn looks of the damned, Cerberus, the multi-headed hell-hound, delivers me to three poorly packaged boxes — and there’s no way even in hell those bitches are going to fit in my trunk — a booklet of heiroglyphics and bewildering arrows, and an allen wrench. He then disappears into a mist of sulfur, leaving me with the one question, the only one that seems to matter, the only one that could possibly lead to redemption, for me and for all mankind, and a way back to the land of the living: What the fuck is a cam lock system?!