What rhymes with lose…

Confuse? Abuse? Hmmm...

It’s that time of month again…


Did you really have to start with an Aunt Flo quip? That’s gotta be as played out as hearing people take shots at The Dude’s namesake…


Unlike every other week – hosting the second Tuesday of the month, –


Oh, unlike some vain aggressions, you were actually going somewhere with that, huh?


– The Dude wasn’t glued to his computer, boning up on the latest security fixes.


Not like he understands anything he’s reading.


Maybe 10% of it…


You know the type, right? The kind who say they’ve read something for effect – like to impress, or maybe convince others they know more than they really do?


The Dude: Hey buhhhh-dee, you wrapping up in there anytime soon? I really gotta drop a Dane out here…


That’s code for “shit”… if you couldn’t squeeze that out of your little brain.


Look at us – being inclooze-ive. It is 2019, after all.


You can see sweat starting to shine up the skin on the back of Dude’s neck. You can only imagine the imminent turd starting to turtlehead its way out.


Approximately 10% peaking.


A deep, recognizable voice projects from inside the bathroom.


Doozer: I’m gonna be a while, Dude. Go down to the gas station and use theirs, or something. I’m not leaving this shower ‘til I get all the icky off.


Flo knows.


Dude waves both hands in front of him, shaking his head profusely.


The Dude: You know I can’t go in public restrooms. Dooze. Plus…


He runs a hand through his hair before continuing.


The Dude: That Florence chick just promo’d against you.


A loud, self-loathing moan / groan / wail originates from the other side of the door.


Flo knows best.


Doozer: Everytime you mention her name, I gotta scrub another five minutes.


That’s what Lee said.


Doozer: Why’d you let me do it, Dude?


Dude quickly raises an index finger that his friend can’t see, but is cut off from a response before he can even begin.


Doozer: In all my years in the biz, I’ve never…


His voice trails off in disappointment. The Dude, fully understanding the brevity of the moment, remains silent and bows his head.


Doozer: I’ve always been the good guy. The guy standing up for everyone. The guy who’d never take a shortcut. The guy who showed the kids out there how it still pays to do things the right way… the guy who’d never forgive someone for… for…


The Dude slams his open hands on the door in front of him in exasperation.


90% of the reaction due to the need to defecate. The other 10% for Dooze.


The Dude: So you faked being handicapped! You did what you had to do. Things are different in HOW, you know that better than most. You can’t be The Dooze you’re used to being here.


The Dream Hall of Famer must have the heat turned all the way up – you can literally see the steam seeping out of the cracks of the door. The Dude, on his toes, sniffs the visible air just to make sure it’s not smoke.


The Dude: Everyone’s a fake at HOW, Dooze.


His head cocks back, a single eyebrow raises… he struck gold.


Screw the 10%, 1% here we come!


The Dude: Think about it, man. Sektor fakes being an addict, cuz you know no one on those kinda drugs could compete like him.


Remember, this is The Dude. He’s not the smartest. He can’t even rhyme Dooze with Abuse… Ooze, with a D… and Abuse, not like “that was a type of abuse” but “I am going to abuse you”… which is how it was used… oh look, that rhymed, too.


Some things are hard, I get it. Like maybe one tenth of your clients without their pills.


The Dude: Madman’s sister-aunt fakes being a woman.




The Dude: Stevens fakes being a history book.


Call him butter cuz he’s about to lube a nasty bitch up.


The Dude: Mike fakes being Lee’s son, for GOD’s sake!


Dude’s hands reach for the ceiling.




The hands slowly come back down and eventually return to the door.


The Dude: Well, maybe more like 90 percent.


Oh here we go!


Doozer: Well then, the ten percent is all I care about.


That could be 100% if you’re playing just the tip, right Flo?


It’s all about context- like ahb-yoos vs. ahb-y’ooze. Or like an inside joke.


Apparently, you don’t understand the concept of either…


The Dude: Well you should be caring about one-hundred and ten percent! Cuz that’s what you gotta give at the next Refueled, man. You know what-


The voice from inside the bathroom suddenly interrupts, bellowing through the door.


Doozer: I know what it’s like to face a woman?! That what you wanted to say, Dude? Yeah, I remember the only other time I was put in the ring against a female…


The Dude: No that’s not what I mea-


Doozer: The uTw battle royale… funny, in a way… and yeah, I wouldn’t lay a hand on her. And she took advantage. She tossed me out as soon as she had the chance. And she walked away with the belt…


Just as Dude opened his mouth for a response, Dooze continued.


Doozer: And you know what, Dude?


Dude lets out a sigh.


The Dude: Wha-


Doozer: I’d do it all over again. Because that’s who I am. And I’m not fake.


A slight pause.


Doozer: But I’m not a quitter, either. So I’ll show up. I’ll walk down to that ring ready for a fight. Flo Kearsey might want everyone to think she’s a hooker, but we all know she wouldn’t take a dime to lie down in the squared circle. And HOW is going to know that The Dooze wouldn’t pay her one to, either.


The Dude nods.


Doozer: I’m not dumb. I’ve been around. Heck, I’m twice as old as the competitor I’m set to face next week. But with all the aches and pains that come with my age, comes experience and wisdom. I don’t assume. I don’t pretend.


Nodding intensifies.


Doozer: I don’t fake it. I make it!


Is that an obvious enough rhyme for you?


Seeing his moment of opportunity, The Dude tries to capitalize…


The Dude: Plus I heard she hates the Red So-


The door bursts open, throwing The Dude on his back. From it, emerges an obviously older, but still ripped Doozer in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and a backwards Red Sox baseball cap.


Doozer: Win or lose. Soon, you’ll be DOOZED AND ABUSED!


Get how that rhymes, or are you still confused?


The Dude, still on the floor, frantically scans the room to try and find the hidden camera his counterpart obviously knew about… there he goes, staring straight on…


The Dude: I’m nothing like the Big Lebowski, Flo. And just because I share a name? Well, you share your name with some chick who died in the 1940s according to one of those geneology sites… did you rip that old bitch off, too?


Get fucked.



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