While I was waiting on the car to get tires and an oil change, I wandered across the street for lunch and a browse through the Mart-Mart.
It was there that I noticed that you can get a talking color touch-screen map robot for, like, a hundred bucks these days. A hundred bucks, for a talking computer that knows where you are by decoding signals from space. If it was any cheaper, it would come in a box of Cheerios.
So I went ahead and bought one.
Little did I know that I was buying Electronic Death In A Box!
Now, I'm one of those people who has a pretty decent sense of direction. I bought the GPS on a lark; I mean, I don't have maps in my car. Interstate highways have big green signs that tell you where they're going, and if you didn't fail geography, you should know if that's the direction you want to go or not. (You're in Atlanta and you want to go to Dallas: Do you follow the big green sign that says Birmingham or the one that says Chattanooga? Ready? Go!)
I tend to set off on cross-country roadtrips with about twenty words worth of final approach instructions scribbled on the back of an envelope, so the concept of blindly following Robby the Robot over a cliff is kinda foreign to me, but apparently it's the latest hazard, perhaps even worse than texting while driving.