Last night when I left work, my tire looked a little mushy.

“Oh come on, Tire.”  Terrible habit, calling the different parts of this ridiculous car by name, but it gives my mind something to do other than hurl insults into the air and see where they land.

“You aren’t quite flat, but you look like crap.”Tired of this crap.  Ha!  Tired!  Oh the puns.

The tire shot me a tired look.  “You drive too fast.  And I don’t like your hair today.”

“Whatever.”  I went around to the trunk and grabbed the emergency kit, which includes flares, jumper cables, a pressure gauge, and this incredibly cool pump that you plug into the cigarette lighter and it can refill your tire.  (Thank you, Dad, for buying me boring and practical gifts.  You were right.)

The tire yawned at me as I filled it up.  Once it was tight with air, I climbed in the car and drove home.  Went inside, changed for the gym.  Looked out the window at my car by chance and saw that the tire was flat.  Again.

I swear it winked at me from the driveway.

After changing the tire over to the full-size spare (good ol’ cruddy VW does offer a full-size spare, I’ll give them that), I went to the gym to workout.  Came home, did some stuff, coaxed Siah off of the bookcase where she was hoarding a stash of gym socks, changed my insulin pump site, and went to bed.

The alarm went off this morning early, giving me plenty of time to shower, get dressed, make lunch, look out the window, notice that now the spare tire was flat, let loose with a stream of curse words not unlike Yosemite Sam, and eat a plum.

The Car Gods are aligned against me today.  I pumped the spare back full of air, drove my six minutes to work, and made an appointment at Town Fair Tire.  (Name brands at discount prices!  Now try and get that theme song out of your head.)

I’m admittedly Crumbs Morrone about this, and the only thing that is bringing a smile is a memory of Pee Wee’s Playhouse (brought to me by Lester22).  Oh this blasted car.

Today’s secret word is:  Tire!   Ahhhh!

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