Spare Tire
Review By Sean Wilson
I am not referring to my gut. I make no apologies for my gut. It's a grownup now and it can take care of itself.
No, instead, the object under consideration is a wheel with a tire attached to it, which rides around in the trunk of my car. It is dramatically smaller than my regular wheels, and it is called a “donut spare.”
As a donut, it sucks. Sure, it's round and hollow in the middle, and air and heat play a pivotal role in the process by which it is produced, but after that the analogy breaks down quickly. For one thing, it tastes terrible. It's not colorful, it's very heavy, and the texture leaves a great deal to be desired. On the other hand, most donuts are baked, whereas this was vulcanized. That's pretty badass. I mean, it's not really on par with being klingonized or cardassinated, but it still sounds like a drastically more intense production process than baking. Also, for a donut it is very large, which is typically considered an asset for donuts. I recall to your attention, gentle reader, the popularity of the long john. Still, in the final analysis, and despite these saving graces, it's not even edible.
As a wheel, it sucks. For one thing, considered in the category of “wheels” instead of the category of “donuts,” it is clearly tiny as heck. I would say it was comically small, but a clown car which mounted four of these babies would not be any funnier as a result. The image alone is in fact enough to make this reviewer profoundly sad. The wheel also insists, with its brash white stickers and its “I'm so complex you'd better consult the manual” comportment, that I reduce the speed of my vehicle in order to accommodate it. “No faster than fifty miles an hour,” it shrilly demands. I draw its attention to the fact that we are located on the shoulder of I-75 somewhat north of Detroit, where the driving public interprets the “speed limit” signs to imply a lower limit on speed. “Those signs say seventy on them,” I tell it. It is unmoved. “Don't drive on me further than 200 miles, either,” it says. “Bad for my complexion.” Bloody prima donna.
At this point you're probably wondering why I haven't just slashed it with a knife, spray-painted expletives all over it, hurled it into a lake, and bought a regular-sized wheel to stick in my trunk against the hour of my need. Well, you might be thinking, that would be expensive and probably also it would be illegal dumping and a waste of spray paint.
Reader, I assure you, none of this stopped me.
From Not My Gut
Sugar Freq
Carl Broman