Cars can think? This is bad.

I love cars. I've always loved cars because my daddy loves cars.

As a little kid, I'd perch somewhere in the garage and watch him remove carburetors, clean out fuel lines and adjust the gaps in spark plugs.

Every now and again, I'd be rewarded with a screwdriver. I'd get to help put the car back together.

Into my teens, I'd help Dad change oil. I'd help my stepdad take my 240 SX's door apart and rewire stuff. I'd impress the boys of my knowledge of what a Hemi engine is.

So I know a thing or two. No mechanic is going to pull one over on me.

So when I suspected that my car needed a new battery, I went to get one.

"I need a new battery," I told the guy at Auto Zone.

"Let me test it first," he responded. We went out into the sun, the hood was popped, cables were attached, and the battery tested well.

The battery tester lied. And I suspected as much.

A month later, my car wouldn't start. I checked the cables, the terminals were a bit dirty, but not dirty enough to keep Baby Car from starting. So I removed one anyway, brushed it out, reattached it. 

Dead. As. A. Corpse.

Chased down a woman with three kids for a jump. Taught her how to use the cables (not a bad payment, right?) and was on my way. 

Having to shut my car off, I worried it wouldn't start again.

It didn't.

After another jump  I went to O'Reiley's.

At the counter, I smiled real big. "I have a Mustang out there that needs a new battery."

"Let me test it," the man told me.

"I don't need it to be tested, I need a new battery. Preferably a charged one since my car is out there dead in your parking lot."

And since no man yielding jumper cables and a battery tester will listen to a woman in designer jeans and heels, I followed him to Baby Car.

"Wow, this battery is dead."

Duh.

Well, turns out it was more than just dead. Since I had unhooked the battery earlier to clean the terminals, the car decided that I was a thief. So there was this devilish red icon on my instrument panel of (I kid you  not) a person breaking into the car with an exclamation point.

My car, my baby, thought I was stealing it. So at this point, a fresh from the factory battery wouldn't even start the car because some hidden kill switch kept the engine from turning over.

Not from blasting my stereo, though. At least a thief would get to listen to Ratatat.

But I can't help but wonder why cars need to think. I got a manuel transmission because I specifically didn't want the car thinking.

I didn't want anti-lock breaks. I didn't want the traction control. I don't like that my car (which, as far as I know, doesn't have eyes) can control shit when it has no idea what's next to, beside, under and above it.

So my car thinks. And it thinks a lot. 

Since when did cars become self-aware? When is Ford changing their name to Sky Net? Why did this have to happen on the hottest day (so far) of the year when I had a contract job interview?

Anyway, Baby Car has since been towed, garaged, reprogrammed, rebatteried, and I've got new keys. And the car only killed 5 of the mechanics at the dealership.

I'll be picking up my Ford Mustang T800 around six o'clock. I'm a little worried cause (I shit you not) I have a friend named Sara Connor.

We're all doomed.