L.S.R.C. Board of Directors
Lebowski ipsum and so, Theodore Donald Karabotsos, in accordance with what we think your dying wishes might well have been, we commit your mortal remains to the bosom of the Pacific Ocean, which you loved so well.
Uh, yeah. Probably a vagrant, slept in the car. Or perhaps just used it as a toilet, and moved on.
And let's also not forget—let's not forget, Dude—that keeping wildlife, an amphibious rodent, for domestic, you know, within the city —that isn't legal.
Shawn lives in South Boston with his seven cats. He has done the L.S.R.C. Newsletter since 2013.
which would place him high in the runnin' for laziest worldwide—but sometimes there's a man… sometimes there's a man.
Lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-yous. To use the parlance of our times.
That guy treats objects like women, man. Hey! This is a private residence, man! Every time a rug is micturated upon in this fair city, I have to compensate.
Dieter doesn't care about anything. He's a nihilist. Are they gonna hurt us, Walter?
Excuse me! Mark it zero. Next frame. Ja, und maybe vee stamp on it und skvush it, Lebowski! We've got a man down, Dude.
Fine, Dude. As if it's impossible to get some nail polish, apply it to someone else's toe.
Say friend, ya got any more a that good sarsaparilla? Dude, please!… Is this your homework, Larry? It's a complicated case, Maude.
Darkness warshed over the Dude— darker'n a black steer's tookus on a moonless prairie night. There was no bottom.
Hello! Do you speak English? Parla usted Inglese? I'll say it again. Did I urinate on your rug? Wal, I lost m'chain of thought here. But—aw hell, I done innerduced him enough.
John "Mac" McDermott.
Huh? Oh. Yeah. Tape deck. Couple of Creedence tapes. And there was a, uh… my briefcase.