I hate three day weekends. Yes, I am a freak, I know. But for some reason, me and Cranky always get into it on long weekends. Little too much togetherness? I think so. All I know is, by the time it's over, I'd usually have rather just come to work.

First of all, we had to go to Burbank. I freaking hate Burbank. It was like the entire Midwest had been instantaneously transported there for the day just to make my life hell. And I hate IKEA even worse. It looks like the set of a bad Devo video in there and it smells like Swedish meatballs, which just smell like regular balls to me. It gives me a headache. Oh, and almost every woman we saw was pregnant. What the hell do they put in the water out there? Live spermatozoa?! Are all their women douching with it nine times a day...? Apparently.

CRANKY: Don't glare at them. They haven't done anything to you.
ME: Oh, yes they have.
CRANKY: ???!
ME: It's not just me. People hate pregnant women. That's why they keep getting killed.

So fucking shoot me and put me out of my misery if you want. It's the damned truth. You can't handle the truth? Go to hell. I mean, Burbank.

Or it could have been the continuation of this idiocy. My bed has been on the floor now for nine months, during which I have been trying to get the replacement parts for the hunk of junk considering that I can't just go down to the local ferreteria to buy the crappy Swedish doodads. Meanwhile, these kött-sucking assclowns continue to give me the runaround. I've wasted hours on the phone with them, during which they lied like their butt-ugly rugs, I think, just to get me to hang up. They said I had to have a receipt in order to purchase said doodads. Huh? Why?! Were they afraid I was going to build a SPACE SHIP with their crappy parts, so that I could blast off and put a weird plastic something-or-the-other on Mars, where it belongs?! Were they afraid I hadn't actually bought the bed, and had stolen all 3000 lbs. of it, and, during the burglary, had dropped some screws, and was now wasting my valuable furniture-stealing time by calling them on the phone and offering to pay for them?! What kind of criminal would that make me?! A bad one, that's what.

Uh...I told them I might not have the receipt since I bought the damned thing in 1999. They said, but you have to have the receipt. Then, just to call their bluff, I actually found the receipt. They contended that this was still no good; it was no longer in their system. And even if it were, they were not allowed to take payment over the phone. I repeat, huh?!? You can buy their schlock over the phone - why can't you buy parts of the schlock...? Ugh.

I was assured that all would be set right if I went to the store in person. So I had Cranky drag my ass down there, which gave him a hernia, and it turns out the customer so-called service rep. had given me the following lines 'o crap:

1) I should see someone called the Spare Parts Manager. There was no such individual.2) They still carried the freaking fuckwad of a bed. Of course they didn't. 3) They wanted to know what parts I needed. I said, don't you know? YOU made the stupid (bane of my existence, piece of overpriced, partially digested woodchuck crap) bed. They said, no.

= total waste of my damn time. Happy President's Day!

At this point, I want to ship the whole hunk of a behemoth of a lumber pile of a bed to the IKEA headquarters, in I don't know...the underground Nazi state (because I'm sure that's where they are), and torch the whole thing, because it's of no use to me now.

Do yourself a favor and don't buy anything from them unless you intend to either throw it away or eventually set it on fire.

Just don't breathe the fumes.