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My last apartment had one of those scumbag smoke alarms in it. I’m sure you know the type I’m referring to â the kind that doesn’t even let you open a bag of popcorn in the adjacent room without going “Oh, you’re cooking? Allow me to play you the song of my people!” This thing would go off even when there wasn’t a visible plume of smoke in the air. And once it started its skull-piercing klaxon, no amount of newspaper waving or carefully-coordinated box fan ventilation would get it to shut up. Nine times out of ten, my roommates and I would just rip its beating heart (battery) out and let it stay dead.