How to Take Down a Multinational Corporation
The Day I Went From an Innocent 5-year Old to an Anti-globalist Warrior
Destiny is an often-overused word. We label everything with destiny to explain every outcome good or bad. But I happen to believe that it’s not so much destiny that molds us into who we are but rather how we act when faced with dire adversity. Was it destiny that elected Donald Trump or was it the fact the American electorate panicked when faced with two horrifying choices? Was it destiny that turned me into Rob Nardecchia or was it simply when my parents took me to an Ikea when I was five?
I was reared in the lost tradition of the nomads, my father Larry was a member of the Royal Canadian Air Force and we would move from town to town in defense of the great Dominion of Canada. In early 1980s we found ourselves in Nova Scotia and we needed furniture. So on that fateful September evening we pilled into the family station wagon and headed to Ikea. Now Ikea is a Mecca for furniture everyone knows that but it’s also the place that forged me into the man I am today.
Like so many other parents shopping at Ikea I was quickly dropped off at the ballroom so my parents could better focus on shopping for furniture they couldn’t pronounce. But before I entered the coliseum of play my parents asked if I had to go to the bathroom to which I replied “Of course not, don’t be silly.” “Well,” they said, “if you do have to go just ask this nice lady here and she will take you.” Well, I took one look at this “lady” and it was clear to me that she was a witch. And the only thing she wanted to show me was the oven behind the counter and the next thing you know I’m being pawned off as authentic Swedish cuisine in the cafeteria at a very reasonable 99 cents a plate. Well, I would have none of that, so I decided there and then that I would not require the Witch’s assistance and entered the bright light of play.
I was a little nervous at first upon entering the fray of activity, children already in the midst play, the banging and crashing of toys, and of course the judging. I timidly made my way to the slide and was soon sent screaming into the pool of colorful balls. The plastic balls were cool and refreshing against my skin and I soon found myself racing faster and faster to get back on that slide and with every slide I felt a growing surge of confidence and freedom from harsh demands of my childhood responsibilities. That’s when a sudden and familiar urge hit me… I had to go potty and it wasn’t a number one. There at the base of the slide I was faced with a monumental decision; do I take my chances with the Witch or wait for my parents. As the line grew longer and more unruly behind me I finally bellowed “Let history be my judge!” and I played on.
A good 20 minutes had past and still there was no sign of my parents, Larry and Mary Anne, well I could wait. I found myself perched atop of the slide gazing down upon the tranquil beauty of the balls below and with a mighty leap I threw myself upon the mercy of the slide…
And that’s when it happened.
Half way down.
I went poo.
Everything suddenly became surreal and moved in slow-mo. I hit the balls with a thunderous explosion yet they fell lazily around me, I turned my body to the slide screaming “NNNOOOOOO!!” that only I could hear. And there, staring back at me, trickling against the bright yellow plastic of the slide was a trail of poo silently mocking me.
Well, thank goodness for the exuberance of youth as the next child was unceremoniously shoved down the slide right after me! On his back, head first. He had unwittingly bought me more time and I would use it. Using my newly acquired orange level swim expertise, I quickly dog paddled to the far corner of the pool to assess the damage. With trembling hands I slowly reached back and lifted up my shirt hoping to touch flesh only to feel the hot searing heat of fresh poo. It was worse than I thought. Being a resourceful boy thanks to my years spent in Beavers, I started grabbing handfuls of balls and began cleaning myself with them, but what to do with these balls? Think dammit think! I suddenly recalled my many hours spent in the basement flipping through National Geographic Magazines staring at large breasted women of the Amazon and it dawned on me… crocodiles! I submerged myself to eye level in the pool like a crocodile on the Nile River and discreetly clean myself with the balls, after which I leapt up and hurl the balls to the other side of the room then back down to being a crocodile.
Unfortunately, it was a particularly tiny ballroom and it was only a matter of time before other kids started getting hit by these balls. Turning around in confusion they saw a weird kid in the corner who thought he was a crocodile, who would periodically jump up and throw balls at everyone. Being children they instinctively picked up these balls and threw them back at me, I had unwittingly started a ball war. I now had out going poo-pee balls and in coming poo-pee balls, I had to work double time.
Now the smell of poo to a small child has the same mind altering properties as crack cocaine and a riot broke out. Children started dancing with chaos as more and more of them took hits off of my “crack”. I was the Mayor of Cracktown and everyone was jonesing for a hit. Before I knew it children started burning Lego buildings and made Molotov cocktails with drink boxes and caps, it was a nightmare. All the noise and smoke brought the Witch storming in screaming; “What the hell is going on in here — Oh my God what’s that smell?” Her departure was soon followed by an announcement that made my blood run cold; “Attention all Ikea shoppers, would any parents with children in the ballroom please return and pick them up. Sorry for any inconvenience and have a nice day.” I was running out of time, soon the room was flooded with gagging parents and one of them was Larry, my father. He stood at the door in his crisp military uniform with a look of humorous embarrassment on his face that said, “Thank God that’s not my kid, my kid just thinks he’s a crocodile.” And with a simple hand gesture he motioned me and we proceeded to leave.
Now by this point, the poo had started to solidify. The reason being is at the time I had a chronic addiction to eating paste, which made the act of walking both unnatural and difficult. However, due to the chaos in the ballroom I made it well into the parking lot before Larry realized the smell just wasn’t going away. He spun around with a look of horror on his face as I crept closer and closer carrying my little purchase desperately trying to stay up wind. Larry cleared the twenty feet separating the two of us in three mighty bounds, spun me around and exposed my dirty little secret to the entire parking lot. Upon seeing this, my mother folded herself up in the glove compartment and began sobbing uncontrollably. Wasting little time Larry summoned his extensive Canadian military training and with lighting fast reflexes he strategically picked me up and threw me into the back of the car normally reserved for the dog. And as we sped off in the family shame mobile the crushing silence in the car was broken by my little sister debuting her original jam “Robbie made a poo-pee. Robbie made a poo-pee. Robbie made a poo-pee.” Upon arriving home I was sent to soak in the tub for two weeks while Larry burned my clothes in the backyard. Apparently the toxic fumes and smoke made it all the way across Halifax harbor.
Shortly there after we returned to that Ikea, I guess there comes a time when every boy must face his demons. After being forced repeatedly go to the bathroom I timidly entered the ballroom, made my way to the slide and cautious went down trying to avoid “the spot”. I was meet with the cool refreshing feeling of the balls against my skin and as a wadded in my familiar surroundings I couldn’t help but hear the distant thunder of children high on poo raining down anarchy. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a ball. I gingerly picked it up and held it in my hands staring at the dried poo still on it. The Ikea in Nova Scotia later closed and there hasn’t been one since until the new one opens this year.
Coincidence? Probably, if you enjoy consuming the brainwashed lies of the mainstream media. But for me, it was mighty blow in the name of small business and a glorious FU to globalization before any of that was cool. I was “Making Nova Scotia Great Again” long before Trump had even declared his first bankruptcy… Which is why I’m no longer allowed to shop at Ikea. So, if any of you are going to one this weekend let me know cause I need you to pick me up some things. I’m not a proud man.