Nobody likes a tattletale. Especially not a smart-mouth, know-it-all electronic one.

My auto insurance company recently convinced me to download an app for my phone to score my driving and maybe earn a policy discount for being wonderful.

Do you remember when you almost messed up and a younger sibling couldn’t wait to scamper off to tell mom? Especially if there was a chance to enhance the story with details that never happened?

Yeah, that’s what I have now. An electronic tattle tale that makes up stuff.

Today, I got little-brother dinged. I could just imagine this little nuisance running a signal back to Insurance Company Central:

“Guess what Burt did! I caught him texting while driving.”

“I did not!”

“Did so!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Did you forget — I’m an app on your phone. The very phone you were texting on while driving.”

“Look, you snot-nosed tattletale, the car was parked. It wasn’t even turned on. I was sitting in a parked car, the key in my pocket, the engine off, answering a message. When I was done, I put down the phone, THEN turned on the ignition.”

“By law, it counts. You were behind the wheel. You were holding me, and I could sense the steering wheel. I saw you, I saw you. Na-na-na-nana.”

“Shut up.”

I read the warning from Insurance Company Central: Do not text, take calls or use apps while you drive.

Excuse me? You mean like YOUR app? The one that runs the whole time I’m driving? With the little brat that makes up stuff?

I can’t even be within 50 feet of my car while taking a call or the little tattletale will tell Insurance Company Mom that I was driving like a maniac even though I wasn’t in the car.

The little punk also deducts points for smoothness.

“What do you mean by ‘smoothness’?”

“You stop too much.”

“It’s called a stop sign. And a red light. I’m supposed to brake for stop signs and red lights. It’s the law.”

“I’m telling mom that you can’t keep a consistent speed.”

“You want me to blow through stop signs and cause accidents? Is that what you want? Jerk.”

“No, you need to go on road trips. Set the cruise control. Let’s go to Niagara Falls. You never take me anywhere.”

“That’s a waste of gas. Aren’t you supposed to be saving me money? Besides, I need to go to work. In town. Where there are red lights and stop signs.”

“I’m telling mom.”

The little pest also grades me on cornering, and on braking. If I whip around a corner, he tattles. If I stomp the gas, he tattles. If I slam on the brakes, yep, you guessed it, he’s off and tattling.

“So if a deer runs out in front of me, you’re gonna tell Insurance Company Mom that I swerved across the road, jammed on the brakes, and didn’t keep up a consistent speed?”

“Yep. And I wouldn’t be lying. So there.”

“You’re not exactly telling the truth, either. You’d leave out the part about saving everyone in the car, and the deer, too. What about that?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, mister. We’re the insurance company. We have you covered.”

Decades ago, there was a phone attached to the wall. It didn’t leave the house. When cellphones came around, it was awesome.

At first.

Now “The Lady” tells me where to go and when to turn. Don’t make her angry by taking the sensible shortcut that you’ve used for years. The Lady gets very upset when she has to recalibrate because you, a mere human being, wouldn’t follow orders.

The Lady became a backseat driver who sits up front, all high and mighty, and sometimes a bit indignant.

Now I don’t just have The Lady. I’ve added a tattletale to my passenger list.

Somehow, amid all this ease and convenience, my blood pressure skyrocketed.

“Was it texting at the time? I’m telling mom.”

Pretty soon, my pharmacist will insist on loading an app on my phone to nag me when it’s time to take my medicine.

Here’s an idea. How about if I pull the crumpled road map out of the glovebox and throw the phone into the creek? Now that’s ease and convenience.

“You do that, and I’ll tell mom!”

What an annoying brat.

Tell on Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.