One time in university I was really hungover at a house party and a friend said she'd come pick me up. I was only like half-conscious as I crawled into the passenger seat. I wasn't sure if I was going to throw up, or shit my pants, or just straight up die of misery. And then it happened - I shit myself right in her front seat without realizing it. I yelled for her to pull over, and she was like "what?" and then I screamed it: "PULL THE FUCK OVERRRR!"

She pulled over, and as I silently debated how I might retain maximal dignity while slowly peeling my shit ass out of her leather bucket seat, she asked me "is the heated seat too hot?"

I froze. What the fuck is a heated seat? I slowly reached my hands down under my ass and felt the (dry) warmth. It was a risky move to put my dominant hand down there, but I could confirm that I did not shit my pants... and there was such a thing as heated seats now. Growing up in the ghetto, I didn't even know technology had come this far.

She laughed at me all the way back to my place where I promptly threw up in the toilet. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the stress of thinking I blew an o-ring my friend's leather seat, probably both. But to this day, I still hate heated seats.