Might be your father. Or your friend’s father. Or even your friend’s friend’s father. But it's an universal truth: he's a mustache.
Just rememer when you’re younger (6 or 7) and you were on the backseat of your friend’s dad Chevrolet, on the way to his summerhouse (this is getting too gay, but let’s keep going). A time when you still couldn’t see what was outside the window, so your only point of view was that old manual-tuning-radio and that immense fat right elbow shifting the gears. Suddenly he turns his neck and says: „What’s your favorite team, kid?“
You’re silently sucked by that hairy slug below his nose.
„Chicago Bears, sir“