Random
Source Code
Random
heyy you know Brad Whitehouse?
"yeah hes Awesome"
Not Awesome, Fucking Awesome"
you know Jake Thompson?
"yeah hes Awesome to"
A adult but acts like a child. A really funny dad. Can’t walk a straight line. A really terrible singer!
Friend: Baby brad is so funny
Me: yeah ik he’s my dad
Biola Brad (noun):
A male student attending Biola University or any Christian school where ring-by-spring culture thrives and chapel credits are mandatory. Recognizable by his broccoli-shaped haircut or tragic mullet and baggy thrift-store fit that somehow makes him look both feminine and deeply punchable.
Despite being surrounded by beautiful Christian women, he cannot hold a real conversation with one—thanks to a crippling porn addiction and the social skills of a wet paper towel. He values women only for their looks, not their personality.
Though scrawny, he hits the gym once or twice a week with his equally scrawny bros, hogs the bench press, and flexes aggressively in the mirror, convinced he’s making massive gains—despite looking exactly the same. He compensates by talking way too loud, over-explaining lifts, and pretending to coach his friends, thinking it asserts dominance. When a Biola Betty walks in, he grunts louder, loads up too much weight, and drops it dramatically, hoping she’ll notice—she doesn’t.
Still clutching his V-card (not by choice), he fumbles every romantic opportunity so badly he ends up as the “gay best friend”—despite very much not being gay.
Biola Brad strikes again—he just fumbled a perfectly good conversation with a Biola Betty by talking about his fantasy football league.”
Schrodinger's brad, its a paradox of every time he tries to get out of a situation by talking, He keeps digging himself away from winning the argument getting more dirt on him in the process
Fuck you no in not putting the brad paradox in the example
A stoughton legend who loves minions and “smoke weed every day”. Has a one inch weewee and has 2 inch balls.
I Brad skipper am going to drop an Andrew Lyons in the bathroom
Big Bad Brad (noun): 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), this gutter snipe 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.
Jimmy: Big Bad Brad showed up late again, wheezing like he ran a marathon wearing those damn women’s sneakers.
Melvin: I swear those shoes are crying for help. Probably like his dentist every time he walks in.
Jimmy: Speaking of cries for help, what’s the over/under on his next fake medical emergency?
Melvin: Two hours—max. My money’s on “mystery heart failure” again.
Big Bad Brad (noun): 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.
Jimmy: Big Bad Brad showed up late again, wheezing like he ran a marathon wearing those damn women’s shoes.
Melvin: I swear those shoes are crying for help. Probably like his dentist every time he walks in.
Jimmy: Speaking of cries for help, what’s the over/under on his next fake medical emergency?
Melvin: Two hours—max. My money’s on “mystery heart failure” again.