Foreword to Toronto Comedian visits an Indian Furniture Store
Recently, my girlfriend and I moved into a new apartment. She wanted a new couch (fuz me, new everything, for that matter), and so we went to a furniture store that was having a sale. Little did I know that I was entering a vortex of bits and bobs also known as the Indian Furniture Store (IFS). I wasn’t sure that everyone would understand the references and allusions in this bit, and therefore this may never get performed. However, if you’ve ever seen that empty, wasteland that is the Indian Furniture Store in your local strip mall, you’ll know EXACTLY what I’m talking about…
Indian people are great at picking food, but they’re not so great at picking furniture to put in their furniture stores in malls. Have you ever walked past an indian furniture store in your local strip mall? It’s a horrible mashup of pleather and stainless steel.
Thought Process behind the choices
Who’s the Artistic Lead here?? What’s the decision-making process? It’s like: ‘Plastic black and white fake leather sofa set with the stainless steel coffee table? Check; yep that’s a keeper, they’ll love those. Lamp shaped like a zebra…check yeah two of those…
And who’s funding these operations? Who is the venture capitalist continuing to pump capital into these sacred cash cows? Because I’ve never seen anyone actually take objects out from the store…Who is the investor saying: ‘This is it. We’re on the precipice of something HUGE. I think the market is ready for coffee tables with legs that look like thinking monkeys musing about the meaning of life.’
And the owners eat lunch in the storelike they’re scared that if they leave their plastic emporium unattended they’ll miss the person who comes in while they’re gone to buy the orange plastic fruit tree.
And since no customers ever enter the store, the salespeople only ever talk to friends…the friends pass by after buying a bag of rice from No Frills to say what’s up…and if you’re the friend it must be awkward because you have to walk through the store at least one full revolution and pick up things and feign interest…and you do the obligatory fake interest move with your mouth ‘hmmm.’
Pick this one up, turn it, musing, ‘Nice’ while you jut your lower lip out.
The wife must be pissed. ‘Back home we had three aya’s (paid housekeepers), a big kitchen, and three acres of land and now I stand on my feet for 11 hours a day beside plastic furniture that our cousins are sending us from Calcutta (pronounced cal-cutta) which smell like disinfected laminate flooring!’ And she complains everyday to the husband. That must be a long drive home to the bungalow for him every night.
But as sad as it might sound, keep in mind that they wanted to come here. In fact, they gave up the housekeepers and cooks to come here. Nobody in the history of time or paid help has ever left a country with paid help to go to a country where they are no affordable, paid help.
What’s worse is that these guys are persistent to a fault. When they run out of capital to pay for the mall rent they don’t pack it in and practice medicine like they did back home…they REINCARNATE their outlet in a flea market where they somehow fit the same amount of furniture in half as much space…it’s like they have Al Pacino giving them the football speech playing in he back of their mind saying, ‘Never give in! You have to claw with your fingernails for every inch!!! These guys never give up…You Bhagavad gotta admire that tenacity and persistence.
– But who is to blame? Is it that the MBA schools in West Bengal are getting their endowment funds fattened by crappy home decor manufacturers. It’s all a big conspiracy…
– It’s interesting because as a culture they spend a lot of time avoiding furniture; they’re always sitting on the ground. Which, by the way, is torture. I can’t sit cross-legged for more than three minutes. I’d be a horrible CIA Agent.
- Interrogator: Where do you have the nuclear weapons?!?!
- Me: For the last time, I don’t know!
- Interrogator: Tell us or we’ll make you sit cross-legged without a wall to rest your back on!
- Me: Ok Ok Ok it’s in Aftar’s bunker on Durka Durka Street.
Afterword c/o Jerry Seinfeld
As I edited this post, I couldn’t help but hear Jerry Seinfeld’s voice narrating the text. I read Sein Language in grade seven and I loved it. Nobody else did. I would show my classmates a passage in French class and they’d be like, huh.
Tonight it’s raining outside. Put this one, grab your loved one, and rock away like Beres Hammond…