Cars Should Not Be Horney

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My car keeps shouting at me when I open the door.

I’ve forgotten (again) to press two times the tiny little button on the key that tells it to lower its guard and let humans rule.

It’s been double-locked so it needs two bursts of radio waves to know that I’m its master. That I own it. Locks, shocks and barrels.

In effect, its ear-shattering siren is letting everybody know its being driven by a forgetful retard.

“See what I have to put with,” it klaxons to the four corners of the universe. “How can you expect me to be handled by this moron. Get me out of here”.

It’s a Mondeo, for Heaven’s sake. A much-maligned model that should know NOT to draw attention to itself. But no.

We are going to fall out big time. Only one more year and it’ll qualify for the £2,000 cashback on the scrappage scheme. Then who’ll be laughing?

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