It started with meatballs.

I was just trying to eat lunch at IKEA—peaceful, normal, civilized. Then I saw a kid trip, hit his head, and cry loud enough to wake the dead in Sweden.

A woman screamed, “IS ANYONE HERE A DOCTOR?!”

I panicked. I don’t know why I raised my hand. Maybe it was the meatballs. Maybe it was the attention. Maybe I’m just built for chaos.

She screamed, “Help him!!”
So I walked over. Calm. Cool. Confident.
Inside? Screaming.

I crouched down. Checked the kid’s pulse.
I said, “Hmm. Classic case of… IKEA-itus. Happens when you eat too many free pencils.”

The mom cried harder.
I told her: “It’s okay. I’m a specialist in Swedish flat-pack neurology.”

Then a real paramedic arrived. I tried to blend in with a group of mannequins.
One fell. The mom pointed and yelled,
“THAT’S HIM! THE FAKE DOCTOR!”

Security tackled me next to the fake bedroom section.
As they dragged me out, I screamed,
“YOU CAN’T ARREST A DOCTOR—MY DEGREE IS IN THE LIVING ROOM AISLE!”

I’m banned from IKEA now.

Worth it.

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