My Great Car Adventure

They recently graded the road I live on. For those of you living on paved streets somewhere in civilization, that means that the city where I live sent their crew of helper-monkeys to my (dirt) street in big trucks, tractors, and a road grader (like a snow plow, but with the plow underneath instead of in front). Once there, they fire up these 20-ton diesel Matchbox toys and have a good time playing in the dirt. They plow the road down six inches, and then cover it in loose dust and gravel; the stated purpose is to keep the road level, 'smooth,' and draining well. The actual result is to make a slipperier surface than highly polished ice (the gravel and dust rolls under your tires, and you can actually travel ten yards after your tires have stopped rolling). It also guarantees a major cloud of dust from even the slowest moving vehicles (or pedestrians), worthy of a movie about dust-bowl Okies.
Okay, so they do this every year, and I'm past even being upset about it. Now, I just regard the whole process with weary, amused contempt. Or, at least I did, until Friday....
My wife, who was already upset with me, drove one block down the street and came back with a bolt stuck in our back tire. Now, like most bolts, this one was as big around as my middle finger and utterly blunt on the end. Unlike most bolts I've seen, this one was around two feet long. I have no clue how she could have picked it up, but she certainly did do a wonderful job of it.
I looked it over, and thought to myself, this looks like it could be plugged and saved, if I can just take it off and put on the temporary spare. So, I grabbed the tire iron and gave it a try. The lug nuts would not budge. Not one to give up, I kept twisting on it until I thought I'd have a heart attack. At that point, my loving oldest son said, "let me try it, Dad." Because I still see him as the cute little boy I remember and not the freakishly tall, aggressive teen thug that he's become, I meekly handed over the tire iron. He applied the socket end to the lug nut, flexed his bicep, and BROKE THE LUG NUT AND BOLT RIGHT OFF.
Needless to say, I became somewhat excited by this turn of events. So excited, in fact, that I was pretty sure an ambulance and oxygen mask were going to be required. Fortunately, my father showed up and looked things over. God bless him, he may be getting up there but he's still got his head screwed on straight. He got me to drive it to the tire repair shop at the bottom of the hill, where they plugged my tire, replaced the broken bolt, and soothed my shattered nerves for a mere $22.50. God, how I love the hicks I live with, and while I am at it, thank you Jesus for making me one of them.
So now, the car is as good as it ever was (worth less than the $22.50 repair bill, but still running!) and I am back at work instead of being fired for failing to show. Also, my son has finally demonstrated that he is now stronger than I am, in addition to being taller, smarter, and better looking.
Don't you just love weekends?