I recently bought a set of tires. Now, I’ve mention before how much I love tires. I just want to assure
my wife everyone that my tire purchase is completely justifiable—one tire was leaking. Buying a new set removes the inconvenience of having to get that leaky tire fixed.
So there I was, driving my family home in my wife’s car. We were just a couple of miles from our house when suddenly this demon-spawned monster sprang from the bowels of Hell itself and devoured the tires from our car, gorging itself on vulcanized rubber, its maw stuffed with steel-belted sinews and its razor-sharp teeth shredding our sidewalls.
So there I was, just a mile from my house when I felt the vibrations. After a few seconds, I decided to pull over and see if I had a flat tire. I went around the car, but all four tires seemed normal. As a precaution, I walked around again and checked the lug nuts by hand. As far as I could tell, those were okay, too.
I’ve already mentioned how much I like rubber. This tire fetish of mine is seasonal—I get afflicted whenever I switch the tires on my cars. This November was no different. Over the Thanksgiving break, I changed the tires in two of my cars, switching to winter tires in preparation for that dreaded white stuff, snow.