Topic Battle

Thor's durability credentials are, on the surface, impeccable. As an Asgardian, he possesses a lifespan measured in millennia, has survived direct combat with world-ending entities, and once withstood the full force of a dying star. However, our analysis must account for his operational durability rather than mere physical resilience. Thor has been killed, depowered, exiled, and had his hammer destroyed on multiple occasions. He requires constant maintenance in the form of character development, family therapy, and occasional interference from other Avengers. When his sister Hela shattered Mjölnir, there was no customer service hotline to call, no replacement policy to invoke. IKEA, by contrast, maintains a generous returns policy.

Thor's versatility, while impressive for a divine entity, remains fundamentally limited by his core competencies. He controls thunder. He hits things with a hammer. He occasionally provides comedy relief through fish-out-of-water scenarios in Midgardian coffee shops. His attempts at diversification have met with mixed results: his brief tenure as a frog demonstrated physical adaptability but limited practical application. He cannot function as storage. He provides inadequate illumination. When pressed into service as a coat rack, the results were unsatisfactory for all parties. In the endless game of 'what could you do with this?', Thor answers fewer questions than even the humble LACK side table.

Access to Thor remains profoundly restricted by both metaphysical and narrative constraints. One cannot simply summon the God of Thunder; one must wait for circumstances to warrant his arrival. The Bifrost, primary transportation method to Asgard, operates on an irregular schedule and has been destroyed on multiple occasions. His hammer, Mjölnir, enforces strict worthiness criteria that exclude the vast majority of beings, divine or otherwise. Thor himself maintains an unpredictable schedule of cosmic adventures, familial drama, and Avengers obligations. Attempting to access Thor for a minor thunder-related request is roughly equivalent to expecting IKEA customer service to answer on the first ring, which is to say, theoretically possible but practically unlikely.

Thor's recognition has undergone a dramatic renaissance in recent decades. For centuries, his worship was confined to Scandinavian territories and scattered Germanic tribes. The Christianisation of Europe relegated him to myth and Marvel comics. Then came the films. Through the medium of cinema, Thor achieved something unprecedented: global name recognition without requiring actual belief. Billions now recognise his hammer, his cape, his Australian accent. Yet this recognition comes with significant dilution. The Thor of modern consciousness is a superhero rather than a god, a comedic figure rather than a fearsome deity. Meanwhile, everyone who has ever stubbed their toe on a KALLAX unit knows exactly what IKEA is.

Thor's intimidation credentials are, admittedly, substantial. The God of Thunder commands lightning, wields an enchanted hammer, and possesses the physique of someone who has never encountered a FRAKTA bag full of meatballs. In combat scenarios, his arrival is heralded by storm clouds and the sound of Immigrant Song. Giants flee from him. Dark elves reconsider their life choices. Yet intimidation requires consistent presence, and Thor spends much of his time in other realms, other dimensions, or space. He cannot sustain the daily, grinding intimidation that IKEA achieves through its mere existence in one's spare room, still unassembled, still judging, still waiting.