Ah, the eternal question: what's the meaning of life? The answer, it turns out, may not rest in the tires of self-driving cars, especially if they're as sober as I am before my third coffee.
I recently tested a self-driving car, and let's just say it had its own ideas about 'destination'. Call it wanderlust, call it a glitch — I call it the existential crisis on wheels. I mean, if you can't trust a car to take you to the grocery store without detouring through a clown convention, what can you trust?
Now, get this — the brains at Big Tech promised cars that would chauffeur us into a utopia where traffic jams and road rage were yesteryear's news. Instead, I think these cars are just pulling pranks. For instance, instead of avoiding obstacles, one car I tested played bumper cars with a bewildered mailbox. Fun for the car, perhaps, less so for Mr. Postman.
And death? Well, aren't we all just dying to reach our destination, only to find out that we've been circling the block the entire time? I suppose these cars get that literally. They circle, and circle, and—well, you get the idea.
Remember those cool self-driving features they touted? Apparently, 'self-driving' meant 'self-thinking' and sometimes, 'self-destructing'. My test drive concluded with the machine deciding it'd be thrilling to test the water resistance of its engine in a nearby lake.
In conclusion, as I prepare to forever end my search for life’s meaning, at least I knew I probably won’t die alone. There’s a good chance a rogue self-driving car will be involved. How's that for fate?
Based on the original article "When Self-Driving Cars Don’t Actually Drive Themselves".
