A lumbering, sub-
human brute with a bulbous frame and an unnaturally wide base. His
thick, fat, calloused hooves are often crammed into women’
s footwear. His face, a big,
dumb, perfectly round
slab of confusion, sits atop his hairy mass, though his scalp remains curiously barren. He speaks in a slow, monotone drawl, as if each word is a struggle against his own stupidity.
Chronically late to work and a walking medical mystery (at least in his own mind), he suffers from an extreme case of hypochondria. His days are punctuated by dramatic medical ailments, followed by frantic calls for an ambulance to ferry him from his own home, only for doctors to confirm, yet again, that absolutely nothing is wrong.
A connoisseur of filth, this swamp-dwelling specimen produces greasy, bile-ridden shits at an alarming rate. He is a walking biohazard, harboring every known strain of hepatitis along with a few that
science has yet to discover.
Despite his Neanderthal-like attributes, Brad possesses a shockingly average
IQ. However, his dental
history suggests a level of neglect that has
single-handedly funded his dentist’
s children’
s college tuition. Though Big Bad Brad’
s underwear is often covered in matted hair and shit, he remains a friend to all and, in his free time, a self-proclaimed world-class chiropractor, despite having no formal training or hygiene standards.
After clogging the toilet for the third time that week, Bad
News Brad waddled out, wiped his
sweaty brow, and blamed it on his undiagnosed
heart condition.
