Rims. We got rims. Rims for sale, rims to give. For all your rim needs. Rims R Us. Rim-A-Palooza. Rim-Tin-Tin. Fill it to the brim with rims.
We got tires on rims. Rims on tires, just in a great big, precarious stack, violating safety standards and posing a wheel and present danger to toddlers and cats, and what are you doing letting your toddler wander around a stack of rims/tires anyway? That’s just bad parenting. The cats can take care of themselves.
Everyone’s in a last-minute rush to get their winter tires on before the snow comes three weeks ago. So we all go into our backyard garages or designated domestic junk space and wonder, “Where on earth did those rims come from?”
And of course we got tires. It goes without saying, the tires. Tiers of tires. A tumult of tires. As the scripture says, “For where two or three tires are gathered together, there shall be five to seven more in the midst of them, it’s just the way it is, bro.”
But now is the winter of our discount tires. It is also the winter of regretting not paying a bit more for tires that would endure more than one season. Because these, the ones you’ve stumbled upon in your garage/junk space, will not pass muster, a fact you either missed or chose to ignore when they came off your car in the spring. They are unsafe at any speed, like Nicolas Cage.
Three out of four tires are worn to nubbins, or sometimes one out of four. How can that be? Have you been secretly stunt driving like the Fast and the Furious, the Speedy and the Superfluous, the Young and the Restless?
Regardless, one to four of your tires are shot. So why are they still here, among the other old tires (and rims; don’t forget the rims; we’ll get back to the rims)?
Perhaps you simply do not know when tires are no longer good, because, honestly, who among us does? When the nobbies show? When the tread depth is less than a cuticle’s width? When the swallows return to Kapuskasing? Reading tires is like reading runes, and it is not my forte even though my life is in runes.
Or perhaps you had a prophetic death wish last April, thinking these bald tires would serve you well come December as you slid with nary a skid into oblivion.
But now life is good, and you’d rather stay on the road of life and, well, the road of road as well. So you must shell out for new tires, one to four of them, an unanticipated expense, though, who are you kidding, you’re going to buy the cheapest again.
Which leaves you with more old tires, to be piled among the other tires that came from cars you don’t even remember driving. When did you own a truck?
But tires we can dispose of. Leave them by the side of the road and they will disappear, picked up by someone with lower standards than you, because there is always someone with lower standards than you, if you can believe it.
But the rims. The rims are another story. There’s no accounting for rims. Like tires, they just show up, but unlike rims there’s no getting rid of them.
Who needs rims? People with cars. But cars already have rims, otherwise they’re just poor-man condos. So no one needs rims. “You can never have too many rims,” said nobody ever except rim fetishists, and we don’t associate with them, thank you very much.
You can’t simply put rims to the side of the road because people ask questions before taking them; they don’t want to be saddled with more useless rim clutter. “What size are they?” they ask. “Round,” you say. “No, size, not shape.” “118 35-22-35,” you reply. “That’s not a rim size, that’s a tire size, you idiot!” Joke’s on them; that’s Marilyn Monroe’s weight and measurements. Her rim size was 14.
You try to sell them online but so is everyone else because everyone has rims. Everyone’s trying to get rid of their rims. “Rims $100. Rims $200. Rims $60,” because no one actually knows the value of rims. Rims are rife with mystery.
So we got rims. Rims up the rimrang. Reams of rims. Rims in the rafters, rims in the rear. Soundtrack by Rimsky-Korsakov. Everyone, everyone, everyone has rims.
I could go on but I’m too tired.