I never thought that I’d look this good at the age of fifty-eight.
I’m a beast standing at six feet and seven inches.
Weighing in at 302 pounds, you really don’t want to mess with me. So, don’t mess with my daughter either, unless you really want to get to know me.
My blonde hair has become white with age and what used to look like luscious golden locks, now look like a sad excuse for a mullet.
I have eyes as blue as the sky on a warm sunny spring day, but they often go unnoticed because of the distracting mustache that I’ve perfected.
My handle bar mustache is always well kept and beats all other famous facial hair growers like Salvador Dali.
My facial features are prominent and look almost animated; from my blinding sky high dimples, to my bushy (still surprisingly colored) eyebrows.
My nose is as round as it can get without having to classify is as a clown’s nose.
I’m assuming people don’t regularly notice my face as I’m usually spotted sporting sunglasses and a slew of different bandanas. And yes, I wear my sunglasses at night.
Because I’m so huge, I prefer to wear the least amount of clothes as possible.
Shirts seem unnecessary to me and with guns like these, it’s hard to find clothes that fit.
I’m so built that it looks like I’m constantly flexing and all the oil I lather onto myself only ends up making me look bigger and better.
My voice is low and deep like Denzel when he’s getting serious and taking revenge or Vin Diesel when he’s trying to seduce the ladies.
I don’t show my teeth often, as it takes attention away from my mustache but you can sometimes catch me wearing a boyish grin, looking like a teenager who’s up to no good.
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