The heat waves rose dramatically as if this were the opening scene of a movie, but this wasn’t a movie…this was real life (totes). The lines of Chads ready to do battle stood solemnly in their boat shoes. An odd choice of footwear for assaulting a heavily fortified military base and potentially sporting the alien equivalent of the famed Ma Deuce…the Chads didn’t care because
“Bruh we look good bro, you wish you could look this good bro, I’m gonna take my girl out on my dads yacht this we…”
Why won’t the Chads ever stop talking about their dads shit? No matter. There they stood, various pastel-colored shorts…pink, periwinkle, lavender, raspberry, and sky blue. Not a single one wore the same colored shorts, yet they were all the same. Impossible to differentiate from a distance. Tools, the entire lot of them.
One Chad made his way towards the defensive line with a white flag…the Chads wanted to talk.
“Cover me,” said one of the defenders as he left his position to speak to the representative of the Chads.
Out of nowhere, that cheesy western music with that distinct whistle played…both the defenders and the Chads looked around puzzled. Where the fuck did that come from they wondered.
The two men met beneath the scorching sun. The dry lake bed upon which they stood was cracked, parched from years of no rain.
“Bro, we totes like don’t want to fight you guys, like for real. Thank you for your service, but like dude bro, we’ve got to clap those alien cheeks.”
Chad thought his opening line was solid gold…he didn’t expect the answer.
“I’m afraid we can’t let you on this installation Mr. ???”
“Oh, dude, like bro the name is Chad man, but you can Call me C-note bruh.”
“Yeah well…Mr. ‘C-Note’, you’re not coming onto this installation. Go home.”
“Bro, like you can’t talk to me like that, my dad is a lawyer and he said that since I…well he pays taxes, technically I’m your boss.”
“Get fucked, kid,” the defender said as he turned around and walked back to his fighting position.
His curtness surprised the Chad representative. Chad fumed as he made his way back to his lines to report to his broskis.
“Dudes, like, that guy was a totally dick, I told him thank you for your service and he still wouldn’t let us in.”
The news passed through the lines quickly, prompting several variations of the phrase “Not cool bruh” from every single Chad…there could be no peace after enduring such a grievous assault to their ego. If war was what these dudes wanted, it was a war they were going to get.
Slowly the mass of doucheba…Chads began to move, they puffed out their chests and widened their arms…they were all suffering from ILS (Invisible Lat Syndrome). Now in their final form, they began to pick up speed. Their walk turned into power walking, which turned into jogging, which then became running…
Loitering at Angels 15 was a pair of A-10 Thunderbolt II attack aircraft. Their left wings dipped and the aircraft began to descend. The Chads had no idea what hell was coming for them as they rushed as fast as their never heard of leg day toothpick legs could carry them.
Without warning, without an inkling…the sound pierced through the air, like a perfect fart.
Each aircraft made a pass. Ripping through the Chads like a hot knife through butter, they circled like vultures to make another pass.
The Chads were in range of the ground forces now, who picked them off with relative ease. There wasn’t much left of the formation after two gun runs by the A-10s. The aircraft circled back around dropping napalm on the rear of the Chad formation. The Chads were trapped. They could either burn, get mowed down by the A-10s, or take their chances on the defensive perimeter.
It was all over in a matter of minutes. The smell of burnt Sperry’s filled the air and the dark red blood soaked through the pastel shorts.
It was not like totally cool for the Chads brah.