Mein Hanzy:
I hope this letter finds you suitably rested and sound in health. Upon your erudite advice I have recently purchased four brand-new Kumho Victoracer track tires and, unfortunately, they have begun to display some rather disturbing behavior, which has become something of an issue for me. It began shortly after I rolled them from the UPS truck and has quickly escalated into a somewhat exasperating and time-consuming problem, the likes of which I have never before encountered. They are still in their original wrapping and sitting in a dark corner of my garage, and at this moment they are looking very forlorn and mumbling to themselves about how much happier they would be back in the warehouse, where apparently they enjoyed some superior social status over the lowly road tires. I recently caught one talking some trash about getting a handicap permit for the windshield of my "chronically anemic" 944, and when the other three joined him in a round of robust guffaws, I decided it would be in my best interest to separate them.

Their character is every bit as shallow as their tread depth, and when I reminded them that their future balance was completely in my control-and that maybe I'd try to save a buck this time around-they turned their rotten attention toward the pair of inflatable spares I keep nearby, and let me tell you their petulant and demeaning manner toward my two McSpares was unbearable to watch, and my sense of social justice would not allow me to stand idle. It was then that I decided it was time to introduce these smug Asian Holy Rollers to the ugly, can-sprayed-yellow, dinged-up and dented cookie cutter wheels which will be their conveyance for the rest of their miserable days.

That took some of the piss out of their vinegar, and I'm pleased to report that their behavior has improved somewhat, even though I recently overheard one of them praising North Korea like it was some kind of Mecca or something, and I've concluded that he is the agitator of the group. He goes on the right front, and after I bang his stupid head into a couple of dozen turtles at the Speedway, I'm sure he'll come around to a more conventional way of thinking.

Peace in our time,
John R. Killion, Car 168

By John R. Killion
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