Cheyenne, WY — Sitting quietly in a suburban driveway, bathed in the gentle glow of a setting sun and smelling faintly of unburnt ethyl gasoline, a 1968 Dodge Polara steering column has broken its lifelong silence to voice a stern warning to future generations of drivers: your car may eventually talk back to you, and it will be an utter catastrophe.
While the rest of the chassis remains content to simply squeak over potholes and occasionally backfire when turned off too abruptly, the Polara’s chrome-trimmed steering column claims to have peered across the space-time continuum, catching a terrifying glimpse of late-20th-century automotive engineering.
The Sacred Vow of Iron and Vinyl
"For generations, the bond between a driver and his automobile was built on mutual, stoic understanding," stated the column, vibrationally telegraphing its thoughts through the steering box. "You grip the wheel, you stomp the pedal, and the machine responds with a respectful, non-verbal roar. If there is a problem, the car communicates like a civilized adult—it releases a ominous puff of blue smoke, or it drops an oil pan onto the highway."
According to the Dodge, the idea of a vehicle equipped with a speaker box that announces open doors or unbuckled lap belts is a direct insult to the American motoring tradition.
"If a man wants to drive down Interstate 95 with his driver-side door unlatched while eating a hot dog, that is between him, his Creator, and the local highway patrol," the column added. "It is not the place of a dashboard transistor to clear its throat and offer unsolicited advice."
A Dystopian Vision of Nagging Instruments
The steering column described a bleak future where automobiles no longer restrict their feedback to simple, honest warning lights, but instead attempt to engage in full-throated conversation.
"Imagine the indignity," the column mused. "You pull up to a drive-in restaurant, and before you can order your malt, the glove box chimically announces that you are low on washer fluid. Or worse: you try to tune the AM radio to hear the ballgame, and the steering wheel interrupts to tell you that the alternator is feeling under the weather."
Mechanics at the local Chrysler-Plymouth dealership expressed equal skepticism regarding the prospect of talking vehicles.
"If a '68 Dodge starts talking, you don't take it to a garage—you call an exorcist," remarked Lead Mechanic Vern Miller, wiping grease from his overalls. "The only sound a proper steering column should make is a faint click when you shift into Reverse, or a subtle crunch if you hit a curb at 30 miles per hour. Anything more is pure science fiction."
Preserve the Golden Era of Silent Machinery
As the engine block cooled with a series of quiet metallic pings, the Dodge steering column issued a final plea to the automotive designers of tomorrow.
"Keep the electronics in the radio where they belong," the column urged. "Leave the talking to the passengers in the back seat, who can be easily ignored or threatened with walking home. A car is meant to carry a driver in dignified, rumbling silence—not act as a backseat driver made of wires."
