Simply put, IKEA sells polished, unassembled pieces of timber in a three-color selection to unsuspecting consumers, who are intoxicatingly drawn to the final product painstakingly displayed in the model showrooms. After passing through every replicated room representing the ideal American living space, the consumer then attempts recreation by stacking a cart full of these bundled woodpiles packaged with rudimentary drawings pertaining to proper assemblage, while assuming this cardboard container of furniture-to-be has all the necessary brackets, screws, planks, etc. The consumer is frustrated once they travel back to the city from the suburban franchise and unload the bundle of unassembled logs only to notice one necessary portion is missing or damaged. And in the infrequent case of complete representation, the proud new owner of Swedish kindling now has to find a couple hours in their day to piece together their recent acquisition. It is this notion, which only creeps into the consumer’s conscience in this final moment, where my entrepreneurial plan flourishes.
I wish nothing more than to assist the workingman’s impatient desire for manufacturing superiority, and that is why I will aid their consumption in any humanly possible manner. Don’t over-think this one my fellow man, just give ol’ Steve a ring and I will pause everything I may be doing to assist you at any time, on any day…end of story. Why? Simple. Because I am passionate about maintaining IKEA’s integrity, and will stop at nothing to make sure you continue to invest in the global economy with a pearly white smile. If you have misplaced the cap to your kettle and long for a cup of tea, I will disembark the departing commuter train in order to head back to my automobile in Baltimore with every intention to drive out to the nearest suburban outlet and find you a replacement. No sweat at all. I live for the adrenaline rush I receive for this selfless act, and may even provide the first service pro-bono. Also, if you don’t want to assemble your new Alang after the hardship of a trying workday, and simply wish instead to rest in your Poang and delve into your fascinating Tom Clancy spy novel. Who could blame you? Not me. I certainly want you to be able to have your cake and eat it too, and that is why I have zero complaints about cutting the finale of a film I’m watching with my girlfriend a little short, so that you can enjoy this slice of red velvet. I will be there in a flash and hope to have the light bulb screwed into its place by the time you thumb through another tantalizing page. And there are a million other possible scenarios that could play out where you may need some assistance, which I would be obliged to provide for a cost comparable to the coinage you may discover under the padding of your Grankulla.
It is with this devotion that I ask everyone, with a similar desire to obtain the disappearing American Dream, to place an advertisement in that weekend newspaper, develop a promotional weblog, or thumbtack a note on the corkboard of your neighborhood community center alerting the overworked of our plan to aid their plight and end the struggle of those suits on Wall Street. Once you have accomplished this act of awareness with a simple message, rest your own fatigued bones, for you have more than done your part. Now simply wait for the deluge of phone calls inviting your expertise and devotion to this superior product. “Make Yourself Comfortable.”