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Mos_Chillin

The Dude Abides

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Maude: What do you do for recreation?

The Dude: Oh, the usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback.

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"i like you dude - i like your style; there's just one thing - do you have to use so many curse words?"

 

"what the fuck are you talking about?"

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hey thanks allcaps!

 

THE BIG LEBOWSKI

 

We are floating up a steep scrubby slope. We hear male voices

gently singing "Tumbling Tumbleweeds" and a deep, affable,

Western-accented voice--Sam Elliot's, perhaps:

 

VOICE-OVER

A way out west there was a fella,

fella I want to tell you about, fella

by the name of Jeff Lebowski. At

least, that was the handle his lovin'

parents gave him, but he never had

much use for it himself. This

Lebowski, he called himself the Dude.

Now, Dude, that's a name no one would

self-apply where I come from. But

then, there was a lot about the Dude

that didn't make a whole lot of sense

to me. And a lot about where he

lived, like- wise. But then again,

maybe that's why I found the place

s'durned innarestin'.

 

We top the rise and the smoggy vastness of Los Angeles at

twilight stretches out before us.

 

VOICE-OVER

They call Los Angeles the City of

Angels. I didn't find it to be that

exactly, but I'll allow as there are

some nice folks there. 'Course, I

can't say I seen London, and I never

been to France, and I ain't never

seen no queen in her damn undies as

the fella says. But I'll tell you

what, after seeing Los Angeles and

thisahere story I'm about to unfold--

wal, I guess I seen somethin' ever'

bit as stupefyin' as ya'd see in any

a those other places, and in English

too, so I can die with a smile on my

face without feelin' like the good

Lord gypped me.

 

INTERIOR RALPH'S

 

It is late, the supermarket all but deserted. We are tracking

in on a fortyish man in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses at the

dairy case. He is the Dude. His rumpled look and relaxed

manner suggest a man in whom casualness runs deep.

 

He is feeling quarts of milk for coldness and examining their

expiration dates.

 

VOICE-OVER

Now this story I'm about to unfold

took place back in the early nineties--

just about the time of our conflict

with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies. I

only mention it 'cause some- times

there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro,

'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes

there's a man.

 

The Dude glances furtively about and then opens a quart of

milk. He sticks his nose in the spout and sniffs.

 

VOICE-OVER

And I'm talkin' about the Dude here--

sometimes there's a man who, wal,

he's the man for his time'n place,

he fits right in there--and that's

the Dude, in Los Angeles.

 

CHECKOUT GIRL

 

She waits, arms folded. A small black-and white TV next to

her register shows George Bush on the White House lawn with

helicopter rotors spinning behind him.

 

GEORGE BUSH

This aggression will not stand. . .

This will not stand!

 

The Dude, peeking over his shades, scribbles something at

the little customer's lectern. Milk beads his mustache.

 

VOICE-OVER

...and even if he's a lazy man, and

the Dude was certainly that--quite

possibly the laziest in Los Angeles

County.

 

The Dude has his Ralph's Shopper's Club card to one side and

is making out a check to Ralph's for sixty-nine cents.

 

VOICE-OVER

...which would place him high in the

runnin' for laziest worldwide--but

sometimes there's a man. . . sometimes

there's a man.

 

EXTERIOR RALPH'S

 

Long shot of the glowing Ralph's. There are only two or

three cars parked in the huge lot.

 

VOICE-OVER

Wal, I lost m'train of thought here.

But--aw hell, I done innerduced him

enough.

 

The Dude is a small figure walking across the vast lot.

Next to him walks a Mexican carry-out boy in a red apron and

cap carrying a small brown bag holding the quart of milk.

The two men's footsteps echo in the still of the night.

 

After a beat of walking the Dude offhandedly points.

 

DUDE

It's the LeBaron.

 

DUDE'S HOUSE

 

The Dude is going up the walkway of a small Venice bungalow

court. He holds the paper sack in one hand and a small

leatherette satchel in the other. He awkwardly hugs the

grocery bag against his chest as he turns a key in his door.

 

INSIDE

 

The Dude enters and flicks on a light.

 

His head is grabbed from behind and tucked into an armpit.

We track with him as he is rushed through the living room,

his arm holding the satchel flailing away from his body.

Going into the bedroom the outflung satchel catches a piece

of doorframe and wallboard and rips through it, leaving a

hole.

 

The Dude is propelled across the bedroom and on into a small

bathroom, the satchel once again taking away a piece of

doorframe. His head is plunged into the toilet. The paper

bag hugged to his chest explodes milk as it hits the toilet

rim and the satchel pulverizes tile as it crashes to the

floor.

 

The Dude blows bubbles.

 

VOICE

We want that money, Lebowski. Bunny

said you were good for it.

 

Hands haul the Dude out of the toilet. The Dude blubbers and

gasps for air.

 

VOICE

Where's the money, Lebowski!

 

His head is plunged back into the toilet.

 

VOICE

Where's the money, Lebowski!

 

The hands haul him out again, dripping and gasping.

 

VOICE

WHERE'S THE FUCKING MONEY, SHITHEAD!

 

DUDE

It's uh, it's down there somewhere.

Lemme take another look.

 

His head is plunged back in.

 

VOICE

Don't fuck with us. If your wife

owes money to Jackie Treehorn, that

means you owe money to Jackie

Treehorn.

 

The inquisitor hauls the Dude's head out one last time and

flops him over so that he sits on the floor, back against

the toilet.

 

The Dude gropes back in the toilet with one hand.

 

Looming over him is a strapping blond man.

 

Beyond in the living room a young Chinese man unzips his fly

and walks over to a rug.

 

CHINESE MAN

Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.

 

He starts peeing on the rug.

 

The Dude's hand comes out of the toilet bowl with his

sunglasses.

 

DUDE

Oh, man. Don't do--

 

BLOND MAN

You see what happens? You see what

happens, Lebowski?

 

The Dude puts on his dripping sunglasses.

 

DUDE

Look, nobody calls me Lebowski. You

got the wrong guy. I'm the Dude,

man.

 

BLOND MAN

Your name is Lebowski. Your wife is

Bunny.

 

DUDE

Bunny? Look, moron.

 

He holds up his hands.

 

DUDE

You see a wedding ring? Does this

place look like I'm fucking married?

All my plants are dead!

 

The blond man stoops to unzip the satchel. He pulls out a

bowling ball and examines it in the manner of a superstitious

native.

 

BLOND MAN

The fuck is this?

 

The Dude pats at his pockets, takes out a joint and lights

it.

 

DUDE

Obviously you're not a golfer.

 

The blond man drops the ball which pulverizes more tile.

 

BLOND MAN

Woo?

 

The Chinese man is zipping his fly.

 

WOO

Yeah?

 

BLOND MAN

Wasn't this guy supposed to be a

millionaire?

 

WOO

Uh?

 

They both look around.

 

WOO

Fuck.

 

BLOND MAN

What do you think?

 

WOO

He looks like a fuckin' loser.

 

The Dude pulls his sunglasses down his nose with one finger

and peeks over them.

 

DUDE

Hey. At least I'm housebroken.

 

The two men look at each other. They turn to leave.

 

WOO

Fuckin' waste of time.

 

The blond man turns testily at the door.

 

BLOND MAN

Thanks a lot, asshole.

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MAUDE

I like it too. It's a male myth

about feminists that we hate sex.

It can be a natural, zesty enterprise.

But unfortunately there are some

people--it is called satyriasis in

men, nymphomania in women--who engage

in it compulsively and without joy.

 

DUDE

Oh, no.

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Walter Sobchak: OVER THE LINE!

Smokey: Huh?

Walter Sobchak: I'm sorry, Smokey. You were over the line that's a foul.

Smokey: Bullshit. Mark it 8, Dude.

Walter Sobchak: Uh, excuse me. Mark it zero. Next frame.

Smokey: Bullshit, Walter. Mark it 8, Dude.

Walter Sobchak: Smokey, this is not 'Nam. This is bowling. There are rules.

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The Dude: It's like what Lenin said... you look for the person who will benefit, and, uh, uh...

Donny: I am the walrus.

The Dude: You know what I'm trying to say...

Walter Sobchak: That fucking bitch...

Donny: I am the walrus.

Walter Sobchak: shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin. Vladimir Illanich Uleninov!

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The Dude: It's like what Lenin said... you look for the person who will benefit, and, uh, uh...

Donny: I am the walrus.

The Dude: You know what I'm trying to say...

Walter Sobchak: That fucking bitch...

Donny: I am the walrus.

Walter Sobchak: shut the fuck up, Donny! V.I. Lenin. Vladimir Illanich Uleninov!

hey! no quoting that which is already quoted- do yer job n' read the whole thread first!

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american002.jpg

a man once wiser than myself once said "sometimes you eat the ball and sometimes - well sometimes the ball eats you"

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If you have ever wondered what it would be like to climb with Ivan just read this thread over and over non stop for the number of hours you would expect to approach the route. This will give you a fairly good idea.

 

yellaf.gifyellaf.gifyellaf.gifyellaf.gifyellaf.gifyellaf.gifyellaf.gif

 

Here's to you my tall talkative friend bigdrink.gif

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speaking of which... hahaha.gifcantfocus.gif

 

Ivan is certainly a presence to be reckoned with from my singular B-Ham, post-Nooksack PubClub encounter.

 

REALZ. rockband.gif

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i wasn't the one challeng'n a fucked-junkie to a postbar throw down though!

 

shit spreaka'n mushsmile.gif - i forgot that as one my for-tay's for that other thread! the only thang i can do int he alpine proper

 

but back to The Dude...

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