This is the guy who yells “¡Dale Boca, dale campeón!” every time he has an orgasm. For him there is no life without fútbol. His football club is tattooed somewhere on his body. And he may not remember your name, but he doesn’t forget what your team was. The most important detail: If his team loses, he falls into a deep depression that can last for several weeks.
The Chanta is the worst of the worst: He’s a liar, a trickster, a cheater, and yet charming and friendly. Any violation of the law or bending of regulations is justified as “una avivada” (he’s just taking a little advantage, you know?) because for him, nothing is really serious. He will do everything he can do to minimize his efforts and get the maximum benefit of the situation — even if that includes dicking other people over. For the Chanta, todo vale!
This is the guy who takes arrogance to its most ridiculous level. He is a specialist in ALL topics: food, politics, soccer, business, economics, medicine, plumbing, fitness, public transportation routes. He has a brilliant, intelligent, insanely self-confident answer for EVERY question. And everyone else? They’re just a bunch of boludos.
This is the dude whose main concern is to make it clear that he’s not gay. That’s why he overacts in every situation to show others he is a true macho argentino, ceaselessly talking (to anyone who will listen) about the details of his sexual encounters / performances.
No woman is capable of resisting the charms of the “langa” (“galán” inverting the order of the syllable). He is a conquistador, a disciple of Giacomo Casanova. His motto is “all is fair in love and war,” and he’ll use whatever tricks he needs to catch his prey. He notes all of his catches by their physical descriptions. Beautiful brunette, lawyer with big breats, kind-of-cute blonde. He doesn’t remember their names, but he doesn’t forget their bodies.
His job is to be an eternal student. It’s been long since he reached his third decade, but he is still taking the same college classes he started to take when he was 18. He wears Che Guevara t-shirts and old, worn-out denim jackets. He is an active member of a Trotskyist political group and his days are spent painting the walls of the public university with slogans against capitalism, the IMF, international corporations, oil companies, malls, the university director, and everything he considers necessary to be against, which is…pretty much everything.
Mostly seen in Buenos Aires, he is a sensitive soul, an authentic nature lover, who spends his days in the middle of a noisy and dirty city, smoking marijuana, and practicing his juggling /circus routines. If he needs money, he finds a busy intersection and starts busking.
His vehicle is an extension of his own body. He cleans it, he polishes it, he sprays perfume in it, and he takes better care of it than himself or his own family. On Sundays, he takes his car for a paseo, driving it slowly around boulevards and coastal roads.
It’s unknown if he has many friends or not, but everything he tells you “has happened to a friend” or “to a friend of a friend.” The friend of a friend who ran away with the wife of his brother. A friend won the lottery and lost it all in the casino. A friend who went to an Aerosmith show and got to dance onstage. The stories always have flawed logic and details, but this guy knows how to tell them in a way that’s impossible to disprove.