My next Potty Mouth Interviewee is the infamous David Erlewine, the man behind the story of Carl who is also the man of my dreams. When I grow up I want to be David Erlewine, seriously. I want to be his fingers. I want to live in his basement. If you haven’t read David, get out of that fucking rabbit hole and read him, okay. Mom stumbled upon his work recently (almost wrote mom came upon his work recently) while Twittering. She told me this guy is awesome. “He is the anti Alice in Wonderland that puts me in awe,” she said. “He’s married,” I told her. She shot me the finger. I promise I’ll shut up soon before “he sticks it in my mouth”, which, by the way, is my favorite line from his story “When To Submit“. Check it out. David told me he’s in a deadwoody cursing mood, so I assume he needs Viagra, or something to liven his wood—poor thing. In any case, I’m proud to introduce David Erlewine—author, father, and possible cat lover. (His kid is too cute. I’m utterly distressed at the Triple-X Potty Mouthness to come. Yikes!)
Almost Dorothy: David, let’s clear the air. I’m not that smart, so tell me in plain English—are you insane?
David Erlewine: I’m too insane to get officially diagnosed as being insane. So, uh, affirmative. And I’m in a “Deadwood”-y mood for cursing, like Al Swearengen type. I’ve never had dead wood in real life. Ha, that is just too ridiculous to even consider. I mean my heart just goes out to guys who can’t perform, those poor bitches.
AD: Why do you think one writer criticizes another writer when they’re both full of shit?
DE: How the fuck should I know? That shit perplexes me. Sometimes, I feel like a total idiot reading writers getting so fired up with one another. I think I should stick to watching reality shows like “Jersey Shore,” which is on right now. I’m like a taller Snooki. I’m very leery about ripping the hell out of other writers. I don’t know that much, technically speaking, and some writers who appear to know a lot more, I think, sometimes go way too far in excoriating other writers, like they are performing some sort of public service. You’re not building a house, yo.
AD: Where’s Carl & why harass the poor bugger in your stories?
DE: Ha, Carl is a good friend of mine. That is his designated first name, but he goes by his middle name. He is an attorney who left the government to go make sick fucking money for a law firm. He convinced me to go do that, but I came back after a few days. I’m not that fucking insane. He has told me that my stories are so fucked up that I should use a pseudonym. For whatever reason, I started writing horrible characters named Carl in my stories, starting with a story called “Carl’s Head.” It’s another story, much like the “When To Submit” story you kindly mentioned above, that deals with some gay themes. My mom really likes those pieces.
AD: Jeez, gay themes. You mean gay porn. My mom totally wet herself and called the cops after reading about Carl. It’s amazing that writers actually came from mothers. Turn these words into a work of art: sucker, spam, finger, & whole.
DE: This is actually a big favor you’re doing me, as I haven’t written anything in a few weeks. Been totally bitching in my head about not having anything else to say, feeling so fucking sad about being so untalented, etc. So here goes:
After re-reading my spam, I licked my girlfriend’s index finger and stuck it up her ass. Before she woke up, I’d wedged in the whole thing, three times. She’s a sucker for such stuff. Not surprisingly, she turns around and spits in my face before telling me to hurry up, she has to get to work. I look down at my dick, forever flaccid after that bass fishing accident. I work her over with my finger and then go back to bed, hoping she has a good day at work.
AD: Sorry I asked (mouth open here). You realize I’m a pre-teen, right? Anyway, if you could be any woman in the world right now, how would you do your hair?
DE: I’d shave it like Britney, bitch.
AD: Best romance ever?
DE: True Romance, particularly the Hopper-Walken interrogation scene. I watch that scene every few weeks. Always gets me in a vendetta kind of mood.
I’m a dumb motherfucker but after re-reading your question, I’m guessing you mean the actual best romance romance ever. I’d say Jen Aniston and Bradford Pitt. They keep on getting stronger, no matter what the tabloids try to stir up with that Girly, Interrupted tramp.
DE: My sixth-grade relationship with Marianne somebody. She had her friend break up with me in front of all my friends at the lunch table, under the pretext that I wouldn’t make out with her friend on the steps. All these years later, I just wish I’d been given that opportunity. Marianne, did you ask me to go to the steps and I somehow missed it? I usually hear well. I’m sorry. I’d love another try, but I’m married with kids so, well, I guess it is what it is.
AD: For all aspiring actresses out there, tell us what makes the sonic boom?
DE: Fuck, I’ve read this question about four times and have no idea how to answer it. I’m going to say that you have to be willing to sleep with Ron Jeremy and you can’t have all these restrictions in terms of what you will and won’t do. I read the word “adult” into your question.
AD: And, finally, proudest moment ever?
DE: Ending my probationary period as a federal employee. The rest is gravy.