When I got to the Record office, the entire staff was gathered there, drinking piña coladas.

“Ben, great news! We finally found someone to replace you!” Katy shouted over the celebratory techno music.

“Oh,” I said. “How long have you been trying?”

“Eh, a few months,” said Simon. “Our first thought was to bring Jerry Seinfeld back from the dead, but something went haywire in his brain during the resurrection— observational humor sours pretty quickly when you say things like ‘What’s with these Asian drivers?’ or ‘How about those little sweaters the gays wear?’”

“But Jerry Seinfeld’s not dead, is he?”

Simon guiltily eyed the body bag in the corner.

“Well, where’s this new Editor-in-Chief?” I asked. “Right over there!” Simon said. “Dancing on the table! He’s the life of the party. He made us all drinks.”

“There’s nothing on that table but a blender,” I said.

Simon smiled, nodded, and sipped his piña colada.

By the time staff meeting rolled around the following Monday, I had already tried to discredit the blender every way I knew how, from writing a witty eviction notice (which it promptly puréed) to churning my own milkshakes by hand. (When I offered a chocolate one to David, he took one sip, then stared me coldly in the eye and said, “It’s lumpy,” as he slowly poured the beverage down my pants.)

During staff meeting, I paced the back of the room, scowling as everyone drank strawberry daiquiris and laughed at the blender’s (admittedly on-target) impression of a food processor. At last I’d had enough.

“A blender can’t do my job!” I cried. “Editing a humor magazine is complicated! What if it uses too many Star Trek jokes? What if it uses too few?”

“Don’t worry, Ben,” said Adam. “Our new Editor doesn’t have stupid ideas like you always did. Remember when you wanted to do that piece, ‘Sexual Awkwardness in the Computer Age’?”

“You’re supposed to write what you know!” I said. “They teach you that in writing classes, which I’m sure the dumb old blender has never taken.”

“Human editors are obsolete,” Adam said. “Be gone!” Then he tried to shoo me out the door with a dismissive hand-flicking gesture, although with each flick his hand swatted my face. The staff bellowed their agreement, and empty cups began to rain down upon me from all corners of the room. Dripping with fruit juice and reeking of strawberry, I fled.

I hopped into my Camry and drove up and down the cold New Haven streets, wondering where I could go, who I could turn to. Finally, it struck me—“it” being a passing Corolla. After I got the driver’s phone number and insurance information, I drove over to my girlfriend’s suite. If anyone would stand up for me, it’d be her.

Her door was closed when I reached it, but light was bleeding through. “Hey, are you in there?” I called, creaking it open.

“Whoa, a little privacy?!” she shrieked. But I had seen enough. She was sitting at her desk, pouring handfuls of fresh fruit into the blender, which was purring like a kitten as she caressed its “Pulse” button. “It’s not what you think,” she said when she saw the look of betrayal on my face, but I wasn’t listening.