November 11, 2006

# 113

To access the rant about IKEA, may I direct your interests to the Blue and Yellow Door...

The Purple Door:
It's all been a haze of late, I shit you not. My first full-time job since arriving back into Australia has been a tiresome affair with sporadic encounters of condiments along the way. The first week and a half was a dip of atrocious flavour where my head floated like flotsam and Elroy Jetson in a sauce of unknown ingredients. The horror of it all was punctuated by a flurry of four-day working weeks where I, the alleged teacher, wandered through hallways hoping that no one and sundry asked me anything remotely associated with the English language. I wasn't regular until I organised a "confession" with The Reverend where we each disposed of a pint glass or three of Cooper's Breweries' finest ale without the clergy finding out. In hindsight, it was a decision of pure genius and I ought to have grandstanded more about it, perhaps naked while waiting for the little green man to disappear from his little cubby house at the base of the traffic lights on the corner of North Terrace and Pultney Street, as that act alone caused more than the build up of waste in my guts to seep in my favour. Indeed, it seemed the turning pints that enabled me to slot into a place, here in my homeland, which had been exclusively allocated to me. Everything from then on became clearer and I no longer had to question the mystical powers of reason.

The Red Dwarf:
Things at work were flowing smoothly by the end of the fourth week; the swagger in my step was directly proportional to knowing my place in the grand scheme of things. I felt ensconced in a robe of infinite possibilities without desiring to blow a load prematurely. It was one of those tantric moments that I, and only I, was aware of. Then week five, aka Exams Week, peered around the corner and whispered my name in one of those regrettable comedic B-grade voices. Suddenly, sleep was at the head of the commodities list and I had close to fuck-all of it to trade. What's worse, although I felt in no way related, my bank statement informed me that my semen account was nearing an all-time high. Without further ado, I consulted my personal guide to common sense, shot off a load before work, caught the bus into town and immediately established a perimeter around the Things To Be Done gang, which was running rampantly throughout the university by this stage. The upshot of this bolt of brilliance was that I managed to slide out of the staff room unnoticed by four-thirty on Friday arvo. Bloodshot eyes from a deprivation of shut-eye and a four-day growth were the sole benefactors of this flawless plan. The moment had written itself, really.

The What-Fucking-Colour-Was-That? Door:
I saw the old man for the first time in more than seven years last night. Ever since the old deer went schizo-cum-psycho on my arse and told me that she wouldn't be attending my wedding (the only one I ever intend to have), things have been shaky, to say the least, with the old bastard. He had lost contact with the son but retained the devoted services of the cook. I had lost contact with the father who had to stand by his woman and retained the company of the reason for my existence on Earth. Following several quick chats on the phone, where he spoke highly of apologies and misunderstandings regarding any association that may have stemmed from the mouth of the woman who birthed me about the person whom I consider to be a human being of the finest calibre, my wife, and whom said lunatic from whom I sprang had once labelled as The Devil Incarnate, I managed to coerce the old fart to meet me at a pub somewhere neutral in proximity to our respective dwellings. With elation in his voice, he had agreed. However, after we parked several streets from the watering hole he made every excuse under the gum trees to why stepping inside such a lavish establishment of liquid pleasures would be a bad idea. I shook it off as a classic case of the old man pretending to be himself and practically had to drag the bastard through the doors, stomp on his broad working class shoulders a couple of dozen times and throw a glass of ale at his teeth. But the job was a good'un, to quote a good mate. We chatted about shit I wouldn't usually reserve the right to fart on, as is always the case with the old boy, but the important thing was that we did chat and we did exchange outstretched arms. A few times, actually. And those two things, as far as I'm concerned, were good enough for me. The added bonus was that each of the girls we respectively love wasn't mentioned once: blokes with similar DNA, I have since decided.

The Blue and Yellow Door:
Welcome to IKEA. Please take your complimentary pencil and paper tape measure.

What the fuck is the attraction with this oversized slab of cultural train wreckage anyway? I posed that very same question to myself during my latest encounter with the Swedish super store to end all Swedish super stores. I've got nothing against the Swedes as a race of people. Sure, there have been moments when I thought more than once about purchasing a plane ticket and an axe, and knocking down the doors of every member of ABBA, followed by a quick stop-over and tour of the Volvo headquarters, but as far as a race of people are concerned, I feel privileged whenever I witness a curvaceous Swedish Arian lass walking in the opposite direction.

But IKEA isn't like that. As far as I can tell, there isn't a single fucking curvaceous Swedish Arian lass in IKEA's Adelaide mega mart branch. And believe me, my eyes have ached from darting sideways motion whenever I've been there. That, the labyrinthine properties documented in the comments portion of the previous entry, a sickly feeling brought on whenever spending more than ten minutes in an environment of unoriginal blandness, and feeling like a human freakball whenever taking a piss or, say it ain't so, a dump in IKEA's pristine dunnies (cleaned every half hour by a Tanzanian dude called Zubloktroi), is enough to guarantee you prime real estate on the expanding list of terrorist suspects.

I felt like tackling the check-out bloke (a term used under advisement), stabbing him in the head with a blunt hexagonal alloy object, smearing his bloodied face and stomping the results onto the canvas I had purchased on the cheap, and throwing the piece on eBay for those who value art to bid on. The only problem was that I found it beyond my capability to extricate the Allan key from its tightly wrapped housing, rendering the remainder of the scheme frivolous.

It shits me that those IKEA fuckheads have thought of everything.


Ultra Toast Mosha God said...

They have thought of everything.

The only saving grace of our local IKEA is that it serves devilishly good meatball sandwiches.

When I first got to the end of soul shattering exodus that is a singular journey through the pine clad dungeon of hell, I though I was envisaging a mirage.

When I was finally convinced this oasis was in fact real, I half expected one of the serving wenches to present me with the meat and bread flat-packed in an instruction-adorned box, like some kind of sick, torturous joke.

Thank heavens for the improbability of my imagination.

Kaufman said...

I didn't enter the cafeteria, fearing its under-the-nose proximity to the loos to be a minor design flaw, no matter how spotless.

However, I did pass a $2 coin to a pimple ravaged youth for which he directed me to two hot dogs at the head of the queue and the choice of mustard or dead horse (I went with duality) from around the corner (though still inside the building).

The panting and cold sweats a few hours later couldn't detract from the mass of happiness that had culminated from that brief moment of bargain recognition.

Ultra Toast Mosha God said...

Perhaps they should just ditch the furniture and sell food.

Surely, that would be more befitting of the age old Swedish stereotype - alluring young men with meaty baps?

Kaufman said...

They'd probably change that to DIY as well to corner the market in flat-packed self-assemble chips.

'Would you like a spanner with that?'
'Suck me off!'

I do enjoy the term meaty baps. It's a saucy fillet of ingenius British wordsmithery.

'Would you like meaty baps with that?'
'Ken oath mate!'

mcBlogger said...

congrats on meeting with your dad, and as for IKEA, I think the appeal is that it's cheap and doesn't resemble something that barely crawled out of the 80's but is still be sold in stores today.

Kaufman said...

Makka: Thanks for reading the entire rant. I was relieved to put those feelings into words and wondered whether anyone would notice that part of the post.

As for IKEA, I can only speak on behalf of the people from my state when I say that I live in a region of the world in which a warped group thinking mentality plays a major role in our daily lives. I wouldn't put it past anyone who frequents IKEA that they do so with the proviso that they queue up with the Joneses and the Smiths, who are, as luck would determine, from a far more affluent element of society. I just don't get it: what good can come from owning a piece of self-assembled furniture that has come off an assembly line? I prefer my arse to be seated on something a one-off piece from an unknown furniture maker in a remote corner of the Adelaide Hills. Or a porcupine.

Ms Smack said...

Amen to that.