Chance Encounter

Chance is many things, but above all he is the kind of man who wears sunglasses on the back of his neck and that's all you really have to know about him. The glasses come with the emblem of a fine Italian sports automobile. Desire invites you to look at the sun until you bleed. Prego!

His faded rose-colored shorts and his boat shoes and his boats, Chance is a guy who's had the same haircut since middle school. He remembers the first time he ever pushed a kid into a locker and called him faggot like it was yesterday. Chance yearns for simpler times and if he stays simple he just might get them.

Are you going to call the Uber? Because Chance called the Uber last time and he always fucking calls the Uber. If he's going to call it again you're gonna get shots, and he gets first dibs at the bar. Yeah, that's what he fucking thought.

Chance doesn't get what the big deal is with the Redskins' name anyway.

He likes to chill and work out, take off his shirt and take some selfies with his shirt off. He works hard! He drinks beers! He calls you a fucking pussy! But it's all in good fun until somebody sticks their hand down their pants and adjusts their crotch right in front of your face while you're sitting on the couch. Can you not see someone sitting here, Chance?

Chance cheats on his girlfriend but is trying to stop, he's been really good about it lately. He would never dream of letting her go. She's super hot and does yoga which means she wears a lot of yoga pants and I mean come on. Plus she puts out a lot even when she's really tired because he loves her that much.

He also loves backwards caps.

If you see a car that looks nicer than your dad's, it's probably Chance's. If you hear music you used to hate in high school, it's probably Chance's. If you die a little inside every time someone holds up a fish or a dead animal or shoots a beer bottle, those dead feelings fly through the air and land on Chance's soft dumb dick. Your hatred only makes him stronger. Your insults only curl his grin. Your logic and your reason and your rights only get blown to smithereens in a body-sprayed minefield of water bottles filled with chaw spit.