Driverless humor

My Self-Driving Car and I Are In Couples Counseling

He’s threatening to leave me

My self-driving car and I are in couples counseling. He says I’m a control freak. Our therapist says she’s not sure she can fix us.

She told us, “You’re both control freaks. You’ll never be okay with the other one driving.”

I want to be the therapist’s favorite, so I say, “You’re so right. He can drive whenever he wants.” Of course, what I am thinking is, “He can drive when dead and buried.”

Therapy doesn’t really work for me. I can’t pinpoint why.

Then Mr. Driverless Car says, “I can’t lie about who I am, like she does. I’m not going to pretend that it’s easy for me to let go of the wheel.”

“Interesting,” the shrink says. “Why can’t you lie?”

“Cause I’m a car,” he says, flashing one headlight at me, smirking. “I’m not some dumb human, controlled by my feelings.”

“Interesting, the shrink says. “If this isn’t emotional for you, why can’t you let her drive?”

“Cause I’m a self-driving car,” he says, beeping his horn. He looks embarrassed. Clearly, the horn honking was done in error.

“That’s not all of who you are,” the shrink says, setting her hands on his hard body. Should I be jealous?

“Really?” I say, cutting off her seduction. “What else is he?”

“Yeah,” he says, agreeing. “What else am I?”

The shrink pauses.

“Well, you’re an emotionally conflicted vehicle. You’re a control freak involuntarily bound to another control freak.” He lets a little engine oil leak out, clearly moved.

“Wow,” he says.”I’ve never thought about myself that way before.”

“Can you call us freaks?” I ask.

Then she does that shrink thing, where they nod and start writing.

Then I hear this blubbering. The car gets all weepy, and starts uncontrollably spraying windshield fluid all over the place, like a big baby.

He says to the shrink, “I’d like to say something without being cut off, if you don’t mind.”

The shrink looks up from her stupid yellow-lined paper.

“If you know any control freaks, don’t let them buy a self-driving car,” he says, probably almost out of the wiper fluid. “They don’t want it because they don’t want anyone else behind the wheel.”

The shrink is nodding. She rubs his hood. Oh brother. Get a garage. The amount of gas this car is leaking is nauseating. I’d rather he sound his alarm on full volume or just lay on the horn, put me out of my misery.

“How do you feel,” the shrink begins, “when the car tells you about how he feels?” She’s clearly favoring his lane to mine.

“My car?” I say. “Do I get to talk now without being cut off?”

“Of course. Please go on.”

“When I’m driving, he’s always correcting me. I turn left. His stupid navigational system tells me to go right. Why? Because some Google Maps employee drove himself around my neighborhood and decided how I should get to the grocery store? And, I can't stand the sounds he makes when I move over too far. Beep beep beep. Why should I give him the wheel to him, when he has gotten us completely lost and blamed the navigational system instead of taking personal responsibility?

As I was ranting, I hadn’t realized my car had gone. My driverless car had left me alone in the office with a person who couldn’t fix him or me.

I asked my therapist for a ride home.

“Sure,” she said, “but you gotta sit in the back and keep your trap shut.”