Give Me Waymo or Give Me . . .

On my 16th birthday, I got to the Secretary of State office at 7:59 AM, traded my learner's permit for a real driver's license, then inadvertently terrorized my small town for two years until I left for college.

I wanted that driver's license like Harvey Weinstein wanted that starlet, and that starlet, and that starlet, and that starlet.

Every teenage boy wanted that license (and that starlet).

I was also anxious to start shaving. A friend commented on my face fuzz, so I went home and slathered. I had more cream on me than a Dairy Queen at the off-ramp of the Fat Farm exit, more cream than a homosexual's medicine cabinet, more cream than the Greatest of Eric Clapton collection . . .

Let's just say, I used so much shaving cream, I'm surprised I didn't slice my nethers in the cloudy confusion.

Shaving quickly became a hassle and now driving has become a chore.

But my driving days are nearing their end.

I recently surrendered my keys to the Human Waymo: Marie, my long-suffering wife. That was something that used to occur only with my fifth beer, then my third beer, and now? I toss her the keys for every out-of-town trip.

She drives all the time to visit her family and to shop, often going out of town 7/24 (that's not numerical dyslexia . . . 24 times a week). She drives so much more than me, she's gotta be better at it, right? She's not Asian or retarded or stoned.

It'd be abject sexism for me to keep the keys at this point, which is probably why I should, but why? I can sleep in the back seat, I can read, I can talk with a client on the phone, and if I'm in a foul mood, I can criticize the shit out of her driving.

I wanna drive these days about as much as Mel Gibson wants to host Rosh Hashanah. If I gotta jew it, I'll jew it, but otherwise? I'll crawl in that back seat.

Every American will come to the same conclusion soon. The drumbeat is growing louder: Waymos are safer than human drivers. They're involved in 91 percent fewer serious crashes, according to a study of 100 million miles of Waymo data.

Waymos aren't retarded, phone-addicted, stoned, or Asian (well, they probably are Asian, but not in a behind-the-wheel menacing way). They also don't take three seconds (read: "eternity") to go at a four-way stop when it's clearly their f'ing turn!

With data like this, our time at the wheel is running out faster than me at that rural diner when I realized I didn't have my wallet.

There'll be resistance, of course. Men want to drive, damn it! I get it. Well, I used to. Maybe it's just my testosterone running lower than a drag queen's, but if you wipe away that testosteronic fog, you'll see: We're all going to have chauffers.

It's just yet another instance of the free market allowing the average guy to live like a rich guy. The average guy has more luxury than every rich guy in previous eras, lacking only the harem, which, until I have more than one penis, is nothing I even want.

Of course, the technology will take something away from us. Initially, it's going to take away our ability to drive: use it or lose it (did I mention low testosterone?). As our driving skills get worse and the Waymos' get better, the data is going to get even more compelling. At some point, human drivers will be outlawed.

Would I push back at that point? Probably. Heck, I'm still grousing about seat belt laws even though I'm more diligent than a fastidious sex worker about strapping one on every time. In principle, outlawing human drivers would be a horrible thing: just another instance of state over-reach.

But personally? I'll be fine sitting in that back seat like a tycoon sniffing lines off a mirror. I don't use drugs, but it'll be nice to have the option of gripping a straw instead of a wheel.