I found it in the attic, covered with a layer of dust and looking ready for the trash heap.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” I said to my wife, whose head had just appeared at the top of the ladder, “There’s all kinds of junk up here.”

“That’s an antique,” she observed, but I thought that was a pretty fancy word for it. The wood was cracked with water damage, the glass on its facing was scratched, and several of the knobs and dials had long since abandoned ship.

“It’s worthless,” I insisted as I picked it up, giving it a good shake. It was lighter than I thought, and there were loose pieces inside that rattled loudly. “Nobody would pay five bucks for this thing.”

I set it on the ground carelessly and turned to continue my search. But there was a sudden crackling and then an unmistakable stream of static spilled out of the blasted thing. My wife let out a high-pitched gasp. And then the radio spoke:

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” it said indignantly, “There’s all kinds of junk up here.”