I am not the Big Lebowski.
I'd tell you about the last couple of days but I just don't have the energy. Suffice it to say that a case of mistaken identity has thrust yours truly, The Dude straight into a spiralling parallel universe full of complete jerkoffs.
I am not Jeff Lebowski.
I mean, I AM Jeff Lebowski but I am KNOWN as THE DUDE...or Duder. His Dudeness...Or "El Duderino," - if you're not into the whole brevity thing.
I bowl. I drive around. I enjoy the occasional acid flashback.
I have a pretty good time at the lanes with my friends,
Donny. I live in Venice, California. There's not much more to it than that.
It's like the Dude's life is suddenly crawling with feminist artists, millionaire assholes, reactionary Kalifornia kops, bimbos, pornographers, you name it.
None of these people bowl. What good are they?
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Listen, you never really know where you're going. One night you could be minding your own damn business, savoring a nice cold White Russian, smoking a fat one and the next thing you know, somebody's in your living room, pissing on your rug and making demands.
Damn, that rug pulled the whole room together.