Some issues with my self-driving car

Dear Google,

I am writing you because I am wholly dissatisfied with nearly every aspect of my recently purchased self-driving car. It has caused me nothing but trouble during its first week of use. Here is a list of grievances I would like you to address:

  1. My self-driving car cannot exceed 45 km/h.
  2. It was only available in brown.
  3. It can only hold two passengers; three is dicey.
  4. My wife cannot wear a dress while she rides on my self-driving car unless she drapes both of her legs off the side. This is an incredibly dangerous way to drive.
  5. It has no doors.
  6. The seating is extremely uncomfortable. I have constant groin pain.
  7. It has no roof.
  8. Is it spelled “whoa” or “woah”? Either way, I have to say that constantly to make the vehicle stop.
  9. The Google representative who sold it to me seemed to have no knowledge of the features, machinery, or, come to think of it, Google.
  10. It spooks far too easily.
  11. I look ridiculous walking out of Safeway with so many oats and apples.
  12. Coworkers will not stop calling me “cowboy.”
  13. The navigation is completely broken; I often end up in idyllic, verdant pastures.
  14. The child of the Google representative who sold it to me keeps sneaking onto my property to feed it.
  15. I feel bad kicking it to increase speed — are you sure it doesn’t hurt?
  16. Voice control is unreliable and limited to specific, outdated phrases.
  17. My wardrobe has suffered from the constant chafing.
  18. The design is too cute. Passersby constantly ask to stop so they can pet it. I suggest less soulful headlights.
  19. The fuel-up method is difficult to master. My fingers are often bitten.
  20. It once stumbled over a speed bump and a man offered me his shotgun.
  21. It shits everywhere.

Google, I request that you stop horsing around and address these issues immediately, or refund my money. I am beginning to suspect that this is not a self-driving car at all, but that it is in fact a refurbished 1992 Toyota Cressida.

Sincerely,

Jack Hauen