DIRTY TALK WITH DAVE CROWE, SPECIAL GUEST, DAVE BARRY
This is a book report. Well sorta. More a book advisory notice actually. If you like your characters foul of mouth and loose of bowel, have I got a book for you.
It’s entitled Lunatics and was co-written by Alan Zweibel and Pulitzer Prize winner Dave Barry. What struck me about the book was that one of the protagonists, the exceptionally foul mouthed and appropriately named Peckerman, seemed based on my old room mate, the equally foul mouthed and totally irreverent Dave Crowe, a man who thrives on deploying terms like “bum juice” not only in mixed company, but for all parts of speech.
For example, a sweet, old granny with a sensitive flatulence issue becomes “the old broad with bum juice.” Or better still, “#$%^! bum juice.” Somehow both Crowe and Peckerman get away with it.
Speaking of bum juice, a definitive moment of living with Crowe was coming down for breakfast one morning to find his underwear being used as a coffee filter. Which only proves an anal fixation doesn’t preclude resourcefulness.
Since Lunatics’ hero was based on Crowe’s personality, I thought it best to advise him about the book, thus the following letter. Warning: It’s impossible to read
Barry without being affected by his style. That’s right, I’ve caught a brief case of potty mouth. But don’t worry Mom; it’s just a temporary condition.
But before we get into that, and since we’ll be using the word “butt” a lot over the next several paragraphs, let’s take a little diversion over to the Lulu Lemon web site where founder Chip, what’s his last name, Dip, probably, because if you’d heard his apology you would have thought he’d done something horrific, like French kissed Justin Bieber.
His crime? He publically mentioned that not every woman has the build for Lulu lemon clothing. I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, when he tells us—don’t look now folks—Rob Ford might not look best in a Speedo. Were Crowe and Peckerman in charge, you wouldn’t have to put up with this kind of bum juice. No, with those two, rest assured; a fact would be called a fact, and a fat lady Pork Tricia. Pork, for short, if you happened to be on the same bowling team.
Open question for Dave Barry: Hi Dave, I was just wondering about your Pulitzer. I assume it’s something you hang on the wall, unlike something that you’d wear to town, say a bowling jacket, and was wondering what room you’ve got it hanging in. My guess is the bathroom, far enough above the toilet that it’s unaffected by rogue waves. But my friend Kevin says, “No, it would be in his beer fridge.” Which one of us is right?
Another warning: If you happen to be running for public office, and some innocent looking reporter in a Toyota Prius rolls up and asks what you’ve been reading lately, (Or as Crowe and Peckerman would put it, “Some short shafted dick wad in a Toyota Penis.”) tell him anything but Lunatics otherwise you’ll be reading in the morning papers: Aspiring candidate relaxes with penis jokes, considers Bum Juice for campaign slogan.
Dear Dave (Crowe, not Barry)
It has come to my attention that your brain, or what you’ve been using as a brain, has been hacked. If you look carefully you will notice some of your favourite expletives, like @#$%, and ^%$#, have gone missing. That’s right, someone has absconded with your vocabulary, (Absconded: A British word used by academics when scones go missing.) probably while you were on the toilet in your favourite little room, practicing manual disimpaction.
Fortunately Vancouver Island’s last remaining private detective, none other than Jack Proctor, was between cases and ready for action, which in this case meant a double gin and tonic, a glass of white, and two glasses of red, preferably Portuguese. With the rousing cry of, “Hey, that’s Dave’s brain, give it back!” Proctor leapt up and stumbled onto the trail, or was that a bike path; we’ll have to ask mayor Gregor, if only he’d stop licking the salt off bicycle seats long enough.
Detractors say you are a foul- mouthed, insensitive bastard. They’re referring to incidents like the time at work with that young, sensitive, Chinese Canadian bus boy (Chineser, I think was your term) who made the mistake of wearing braces to work, causing you to say, “Blow me, Tinsel Teeth,” though all he said was, “table three is ready to go.”
And the time that little weasel Graham Chambers incapacitated himself at Baby Huey’s wedding and you tried to piss on him but didn’t have the balance to maintain your range, all of which became unimportant when the mother of the groom popped her head around the corner to see what the laughter was about.
Well, you’ll be pleased to know you are not the most politically incorrect, racist, foul- mouthed, insensitive bastard around. You are in the number two spot. The title goes to Dave Barry, who, according to Proctor, is the guy who stole your brain, or at least the part of your brain that talks dirty, which means most of it.
But don’t take Proctor’s word for it. See for yourself. I strongly encourage you go to the library and pick up a copy of the book Lunatics. Now I know you’ve had bad experiences at the library, and I do think they incarcerated you prematurely that last outing. My advice is to give the sexual health section a pass, thus bettering your chances of keeping your pants on. Obviously when you encountered that diagram entitled normal penis, you had no choice but to check and compare.
And this time, please be more careful about not staring down the librarian’s top if you are lucky enough to find a librarian with an ample super structure. I know this is tempting when the librarian bends over to careful examine, perhaps sterilize your library card which remains coated in a mysterious white emulsion, possibly mayonnaise, but most likely what’s known at your masturbation clinic as “crowe juice.’
This warning holds doubly true if the person of cleavage happens to be male.
Before you summon a response, and I know it will be along the lines of, “fuck off penis breathe,” keep in mind this would be EXACTLY what you would expect from Lunatic’s protagonist, Peckerman, a man like yourself who’s not afraid to take the occasional expletive by the horns, or use a spray of urine to express himself.
What I’m saying is the two of us could write this book; you are the master at using the f-word for all seven parts of speech, eight in Newfoundland, while I have the handsome face for the back cover. Remind me to wear a cravat, looking like Gore Vidal might be an advantage, but certainly not in the steam bath, especially with you being so loose bowelled.
Hoping you can find a copy of the book, which you will love, and best of luck at the small animals sex addiction clinic where your attendance has been greatly appreciated, but not by the small animals.
Signed, a friend.
Source:
http://slightlycorkedandmore.wordpress.com/2013/11/13/dirty-talk-with-dave-crowe-special-guest-dave-barry/