Once upon a time, cars were machines.
Steel, grease, and human touch, not software updates and warning lights.
If something broke, it was because a bolt stripped or a gasket failed, not because a line of code forgot its purpose.
Back then, a recall meant something mechanical, tangible, a brake line, a seatbelt, a tank that leaked or exploded. You could see the flaw, feel it, fix it with your hands.
The danger was real, but so was the solution. Then came the circuitry.
We traded simplicity for sophistication, and the garage for the update.
Now recalls arrive by the millions, invisible ghosts hidden in the silicon veins of our so-called smart machines.
We were promised progress, and we got recall notices.
Cars that can park themselves, but can’t remember how to stay safe. Engines that whisper in algorithms, but forget the rhythm of combustion.
Every recall is a confession, that our cleverness outran our craftsmanship, that the human touch was more reliable than the human code.
And yet, we still line up for the next model, the next download, the next fix. Because progress, like everything else these days, comes with a warranty and an expiration date.
And so once again, we trade simplicity for complexity, with a side of complication disguised as convenience.
All for the comfort of fitting in.
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Chu The Cud 