I would like to thank everyone involved in warning me about my homicidal air fryer.
I opened my email the other day to find a notice from Amazon: My air fryer had been recalled, and I don't mean "remembered in a Proustian reverie with melancholy fondness." Another email from the device's manufacturer told me that it posed a clear and present danger and should not be used.
Later I checked Google News, and one of the main stories was an air fryer recall. The next morning, the warning was in this very paper.
You know, I was starting to think there was something wrong with my air fryer. Or, as I now thought of it, the murder box.
At this point, I expected a phone call: "We've been trying to reach you in regards to your air fryer." I expected a man at the grocery store to lean close: "Psst. Word to the wise, pal. Your air fryer has it out for you." When I got home, there was a messenger pigeon on my stoop with the URL for the rebate tied around its leg. OK, OK. I get it.
The website informed me that I was eligible for a brand-new unit, which was stunning. It's three years old. Appliances have the lifespan of a mayfly these days, and they're willing to replace it? Well, that's how you build goodwill and repeat business and keep the cranky folk from suing, I suppose.
All I had to do was get the serial number and the B/N, or "batch number." Then I had to send a picture of the front, the side and the bottom, with a piece of paper listing the batch number. Then the chilling part: Each picture must contain unmistakable evidence that the electrical cord had been severed from the unit.
There's something unnerving about this, like a kidnapper sending a picture of a severed finger. I understand the rationale — they want to make sure the thing is good and truly dead. You ask: Couldn't you photoshop it and resell the unit? Yes, if I was a psychopath.
