RabidPossum's Soapbox

I hate Ikea.  For someone living in the dense urban clusterfuck that is New York City, with an apartment roughly half the size of the men’s restroom at a suburban Cheesecake Factory, going to Ikea is not unlike when a man in a white coat shoves his cold, latex-clad finger in your ass once a year (for middle-aged guys, at least)—it’s unpleasant and, sadly, inevitable.  I’ve been a loyal Ikea customer for eight years, in the same sense that someone with battered-wife syndrome makes for a loyal spouse. Rant On!