No funny stuff.
As movies go, The Big Lebowski is as good as any movie to commit suicide to. I’m ready. But I don’t want to go. For God’s sake, I’m drinking root beer on ice. I’ve got no one to love. But I do have a wish list. And someone’s ruined my rug. Swear on my grandfather’s dead soul. The rug is rolled up on my back porch. Unwanted as I am.
I’ve never been to Paris. But my heart is reaching out to be there. Now the floor is bare. The varnish has been worn away. The rug helped to hide the blemishes. And tied the room together.
Vagina. Oh yeah? Johnson?
I gotta rash, man, fuckin’ A. Let me tell you.
The big dark shadow is hard to maintain. I’m staying and finishing my coffee. Finishing my coffee. I am the Dude. Do you see what happens Larry? We’re not the only morons here. It’s a heart attack, Dude. Call the medics, God damn it!
Is there a Ralph’s around here?
Dude. Fuck it, man. Let’s go bowling.
What a great movie when there’s no winner. But everyone is happy. God gets a kick out of it all. And the Dude abides.