I would equate the IKEA experience to standing in line for two and a half hours with a shattering hangover next to a guy wearing too much cologne and his whining six year old on a sweltering August afternoon to ride The Screaming Eagle, with gum in your hair from leaning against the gum wall, only to reach the end of the line and sit in a car that someone had vomited in earlier but was insufficiently hosed out and after enduring the ride, the train stops 30 feet short of the shelter while you sit there panting with hot saliva for another 40 minutes that it takes the maintenance crew to repair the problem and finally bring you back to the shed all the while withering under the mingling fumes of steaming sweat, Drakkar Noir and Friar Tuck’s turkey leg barf while that brat from the cattle chute continues her incessant wailing.

It is something akin to that.