Tires Season 2 Review: More Than Just a Blue-Collar Gag-Fest

The air at Valley Forge Automotive hangs thick with the metallic scent of ambition and the faint, sweet odor of decay. It is a peculiar purgatory where the squeal of an impact wrench marks the passage of time, a sound that signifies both progress and the endless repetition of the same task. Here, in this cathedral of vulcanized rubber and hydraulic lifts, the great human drama unfolds not as tragedy or epic, but as a low-stakes grind.

Into this humming inertia steps Will, the anxious heir, a man convinced that order can be wrestled from entropy. His plans are small prayers whispered against the encroaching chaos, a desperate attempt to inscribe meaning onto the grimy ledger of his inheritance. He is the architect of a future that may never arrive.

His counterpoint, his shadow, is his cousin Shane, a trickster spirit dwelling within the machine. Shane is the casual miracle and the profound rebellion, a mechanic whose talent is matched only by his deep-seated refusal to care. He finds a strange liberation in the pointlessness of it all, a freedom Will cannot comprehend. Their daily struggle is the series’ sputtering engine: Will pushes his rock of professional structure uphill, while Shane waits, with a patient smirk, for gravity to take its inevitable course.

Building a Larger Cage

The first season offered its truths in brief, violent spasms—vignettes of comedic despair that vanished as quickly as they appeared. A mercy, perhaps. This second season offers no such escape. The narrative canvas has doubled in size, not to offer freedom, but to provide a more expansive prison for its inhabitants.

The walls of the cage have been pushed back, revealing more of the barren landscape within, forcing a longer, more intimate contemplation of the void. There is a newfound certainty here, a chilling confidence in the bleakness of its own reflection. The show no longer glances at the abyss; it stares, unflinching.

This extended sentence allows for the introduction of consequence, a concept previously alien to this hermetically sealed world. Episodic jolts of absurdity now bleed into one another, creating longer, darker stains on the timeline. Will’s desperate quest for a bank loan is not merely a plot; it is a self-imposed penance, a formal declaration of his war against meaninglessness.

Actions accumulate. Words, once thrown away like stripped bolts, now return as echoes, as debts. For the first time, the characters’ choices begin to calcify into something resembling fate, giving their frantic motion a terrifying and unfamiliar weight. They are forging the very chains that will hold them.

A Dialogue Between Order and Entropy

At the heart of this world is the dialectic between Will and Shane, a relationship that functions less as a friendship and more as a ceaseless philosophical argument made flesh. Will is a prophet of becoming; he preaches a gospel of spreadsheets and five-year plans, a desperate belief that human will can bend the arc of existence toward profit.

He offers Shane the poisoned chalice of management, a promotion that is truly a damnation, asking him to join the fiction of progress. Shane’s refusal is not mere sloth; it is a profound act of self-preservation. To climb the ladder is to acknowledge the ladder’s importance, to become vulnerable to the fall. In his grease-stained stasis, he is untouchable, a master of his small, chaotic domain. His resistance is the quiet terror of the man who looks upon the grand stage and sees only a scaffold.

And yet, a strange gravity binds these opposing poles. An unbreakable covenant of ruin. Their loyalty manifests not in kindness, but in a shared conspiracy against the outside world—a world represented by the hollow authority of figures like the general manager, Dave. They shield one another from the consequences of their own natures, an act that paradoxically unleashes greater chaos. It is the honor found among the damned, a pact to ensure that if one falls, the other is there to obscure the body.

Slowly, the poles begin to shift. Will’s voice, once a nervous tremor, hardens into the steady cadence of a man who has learned to lie to himself with conviction. He becomes a more effective warden of his own prison. Simultaneously, cracks appear in Shane’s lacquered shell of indifference. The appearance of family, the phantom limb of a romantic connection, reveals the ghost of the man he might have been. It is a terrifying vulnerability, the quiet horror that even the man who believes in nothing can still have something to lose.

Satellites in a Decaying Orbit

Into this closed system of mirrored dysfunction drift new celestial bodies, each destined to be warped by the central gravity of the cousins’ conflict. The most significant of these is Phil, Shane’s father, who arrives not as a man but as an explanation.

He is the walking, talking ur-text for Shane’s entire philosophy of evasion. In Phil’s desperate, misguided attempts at paternal love—a force that manifests as suffocating interference—we see the genesis of his son’s rebellion.

Their dynamic culminates in a historical reenactment that becomes a personal one: two men dressed as George Washington, ghosts playing other ghosts, their shared blood a deeper, more binding costume than any revolutionary uniform. It is here that Phil’s ambition is revealed as a mirror of his own past failures, and Shane’s apathy is unmasked as a shield against an inherited legacy of disappointment.

Other figures appear, offering brief, destabilizing glimpses of an outside world. A romantic interest for Shane, Kelly, acts as a sharp, unexpected reflection, forcing him to confront the arrested development he wears as armor. For Will, a rival salesman named Ryan emerges, offering a form of sincere camaraderie that feels alien in this ecosystem of transactional relationships—a moment of inexplicable grace that is therefore all the more confounding.

Meanwhile, the familiar supporting players remain the constant, humming background radiation of this place. The slimy resentment of Dave, the placid resignation of Cal, and the weary cynicism of Kilah are the fixed points against which the primary drama unfolds. Even the transient guest stars, comets of recognizable comedy, are absorbed seamlessly, their brief, bright flashes only serving to emphasize the vast and unchanging darkness that surrounds them.

A Private Language of Ruin

The comedy of this world is not crafted; it is excavated. It is a raw, base element drawn up from the bedrock of masculine anxiety and blue-collar ritual. The jokes—a relentless barrage of insults, juvenile pranks, and profane observations—are less like structured humor and more like the frantic signals of a failing organism.

The dialogue has the ragged edge of improvisation, a sense of language collapsing under pressure. A sudden break in character, a real laugh escaping the actor’s mask, feels not like a mistake, but like a moment of terrifying authenticity—a brief glimpse of the real person trapped within the performance of self.

This is not a public broadcast. It is a private language spoken by a tribe that has turned inward, its humor a hermetic code built on shared histories and unspoken pains. The comedic gaze is relentlessly masculine, not as a political statement, but as a simple fact of this isolated environment, like the unchanging chemical composition of the air.

We, the viewers, are not guests invited to a party; we are eavesdroppers, pressing our ears to the wall of a sealed room, catching fragments of a conversation not meant for us. The laughter is for them, a way of reaffirming the boundaries of their shared confinement.

The narrative relies on simple catalysts to provoke these exchanges: an HR seminar on conduct becomes a lesson in the impossibility of legislating human nature; a black mold outbreak serves as a metaphor for a deeper, unseen decay. These are merely mundane pressures applied to the system, designed to watch the cracks widen and to record the sounds that emerge from the fissure.

The Comfort of the Cage

What emerges from this second, longer season is a machine of surprising integrity. It has settled into its own grim rhythm, no longer striving to be anything other than a document of this specific, looping purgatory.

There is an odd comfort in its lack of pretense; it is a comedy that makes no apology for the darkness from which its laughter is born. Beneath the relentless static of its humor, one detects a deeper signal—the low hum of loyalty as a survival mechanism and friendship as a shared burden against the anxieties of a world with diminishing returns.

The result is disquieting and, for those attuned to its bleak frequency, strangely resonant. It does not ask to be liked by all, only to be recognized by those who have also stared into a similar, ordinary void and felt the absurd, terrifying impulse to laugh.

Full Credits

Creators / Executive Producers: Shane Gillis, Steve Gerben, John McKeever

Director: John McKeever

Writers: Shane Gillis, Steve Gerben, John McKeever

Producers: Molly McMillen

Executive Producers: Shane Gillis, Steve Gerben, John McKeever, Becky Astphan, Brandon James, Brian Stern, Kenneth Slotnick

Cast: Shane Gillis, Steve Gerben, Chris O’Connor, Kilah Fox, Stavros Halkias, Thomas Haden Church, Andrew Schulz, Tommy Pope, Veronika Slowikowska, Jon Lovitz, Ron White, Vince Vaughn

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Ted Moran

Editors: John McKeever, Conor Kelley, Justin Bourret

Composer: Alex Weinstein