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:
- My self-driving car cannot exceed 45 km/h.
- It was only available in brown.
- It can only hold two passengers; three is dicey.
- 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.
- It has no doors.
- The seating is extremely uncomfortable. I have constant groin pain.
- It has no roof.
- Is it spelled “whoa” or “woah”? Either way, I have to say that constantly to make the vehicle stop.
- The Google representative who sold it to me seemed to have no knowledge of the features, machinery, or, come to think of it, Google.
- It spooks far too easily.
- I look ridiculous walking out of Safeway with so many oats and apples.
- Coworkers will not stop calling me “cowboy.”
- The navigation is completely broken; I often end up in idyllic, verdant pastures.
- The child of the Google representative who sold it to me keeps sneaking onto my property to feed it.
- I feel bad kicking it to increase speed — are you sure it doesn’t hurt?
- Voice control is unreliable and limited to specific, outdated phrases.
- My wardrobe has suffered from the constant chafing.
- The design is too cute. Passersby constantly ask to stop so they can pet it. I suggest less soulful headlights.
- The fuel-up method is difficult to master. My fingers are often bitten.
- It once stumbled over a speed bump and a man offered me his shotgun.
- 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.