There were more pressing reasons for showing Bob the oven door. He just didn't fit in around here.
He was too short. He chattered. He didn't shave. He had big teeth that stuck out. And he smelled bad -- we're talking foul. We had to tie him out in the courtyard when company came, where he crowded the editors of our parent publication, Light Reading. Worst of all, he ate wood!
Speaking of wood, let's be clear: This move should in no way reflect poorly on us. We see it as clearing the underbrush to allow the blossoming of our underlying assets. We see it as a minor adjustment in the silviculture of our company, letting us tap the nourishment hitherto obstructed by the byproducts of Bob's manic munching.
What's more, we're looking for a replacement. We're interviewing now. And that's where you come in.