With his Pot belly straining against his grease stained shirt, the rear of his trousers (occasionally) riding far too low for the public eye and the smell of gasoline, moonshine and tobacco wafting up from his person, it's clear that this man has and never will properly belong to the upper (or even medium) class of society. (Or any organization for that matter)

This charming fella wears an old tattered  straw farmers hat, with  a line of shotgun shells surrounding the crown of the hat.

A thick layer of scruffy facial hair covers his chin and face. His moustache and beard dividing line are nearly indistinguishable, the bulk of beard and 'stache combed to a poofy look.

He normally wears a simple, yet pocket-filled vest over his traditional grease-stained beige shirt. Depending on the cooperation of his belt and trousers, his beer-gut may or may not be sticking out slightly.

One might notice his vast collection of trinkets and pouches that line his waistline (or attempt to). Shotgun shells, survival equipment, and a vast variety of random and potentially useless trinkets can be found within the pouches, should he ever fall and spill everything.

With his collapse-and-foldable shotgun holstered at his side, and his enormous bulging pack of other useless items slung over his shoulder, its unclear if this man is ready to go on a hike, or potentially homeless.

With a waddle in his walk, something to chew on in his grin and a twinkle in his eye, this portly fellow appears to be entirely carefree and free spirited.

 Or entirely ignorant.

Vocally, he can be rather obnoxious. With a scratchy and hoarse voice, combined with his 'country-slanged' accent, the Old Farmer speaks with loud and excited enthusiasm.