O.J. Simpson Freaky Deak (TEXT)

"Black and blue balls"

If my New Year's egg beater omelet with a bruised apple and side of O.J. wasn't a premonition of things to come, then I don't know what is. The other morning Dar and I are collaborating on our upcoming list of New Year's Deakolusions when the brown (Chris/Bobby) sheen (Charlie) of scars from last year's New Year's deakssault and battery by the O.J. Simpson Freaky Deak resurfaces in the form of a text. It appears our threat of a textual deakstraining order did not suffice:

So Dar and I were in South Beach last New Year's per our bi-winter Art Deco architectural excavation, and by that I obviously mean our journey to decipher what shape of pitcher at Cuban restaurants holds the largest capacity of vodka mojitos. What the trip turned into was a study on a style of freakiness that originated in the United States of Deak in the first deakades of the 20th Century from the movements of creepism, stalkism, and abusism: Art Deako.

We were at the hot new nightclub SET, post stage 1 of the mojito probe, trying to locate an area of the club where Eurotrash and House weren't the demographic of people and music genre, respectively. Our search for a tranquil spot to debrief on the 3 mojito pitchers at De Rodriguez was interrupted by a couple of professional looking gentlemen, one of whom seemed well acquainted with the club. They offer to buy us drinks and take us to a spot where the thumping of the music isn't from electronic Euro rhythms, but our sound of comfort -- gunshots. For the sake of our mojito exposito we oblige.

As we wait for our drinks in the hip hop room, the SET connoisseur or O.J. Simpson Freaky Deak as he explosively will become, says he is hosting a New Year's Eve party the following night at The Delano. He asks us to be his VIP guests so Dar gives him her number upon request. Being that The Delano is the blueprint of design for my apartment, no one is going to deakceive me on anything Delano. But soon enough, some of the details of the soiree come into question and things begin to get icky or Ikey (Turner). DeakBeater says that the headlining musician is performing in the Blue Door, a room with poor acoustics.
But even more suspect (suspect being the operative word) the headliner is currently incarcerated:  T.I.  How befitting that he's in on weapons charges...

Dar and I give each other the deaknal that we're going to get these impending drinks paid for and then dodge this bullet. But when the drinks finally arrive, DeakBeater and Accomplice Deak are nowhere to be found. It's a deakal-edged sword that we so easily lost them but we have to buy our golden encrusted strawberry mojitos on our own.

As soon as we pay, however, we spot the deaks heading back our way. Apparently not only are they deakceptive but they are cheap-a-deaks as well. With our drinks in tow we press the elevator to escape to another level. But the elevator seems to be moving on the same island time our drinks had been on, and soon enough we're back under what would become the Regime of Deak.

O.J. Simpson Freaky Deak asks us where we are going and we respond that we are finishing our drinks and heading home. "Please don't," he pleads. He says he has more to tell us about the surprise opening act at tomorrow's party. As we try to step into the elevator before we have to hear that he has Tupac lined up,  DeakBeater blocks the entrance. He is all of a sudden red faced and angry and has manifested into the second coming of Mel Gibson: "You're not going anywhere." We are deaked the hell out.

Dar is in front of me and tries to scurry around him but to no avail. He grabs her and holds on for his life; she yells to get his hands off as I cry bouncer. Dar is about to get Mike Tysoned right in front of me, and the one time I actually need club enforcement, they're not there.  Accomplice Deak finally yells at his friend to release Dar after seeing her fear. After much pleading, O.J. Simpson Deak lets Dar go and we run in the opposite direction down the emergency exit stairs, licking our wounds and the mojito spillage.

During the rest of what turned into our Art Deako trip and beyond, a storm of domobile-estic deakssault and battery ensued until we threatened litigation.

As I'm currently looking for gauze and ointment to cover Dar's textual wounds, I just noticed the black and blue cheese in my beaten omelet. I'm now choking at the hands of my O.J.

Masturbator Freaky Deak (FACEBOOK)

"Once a freak, always a Deak"

Whether it be salting the chimney, skinning the snowman's carrot, or flogging the eggnog in preparation for the holidays, the only thing that comes to mind this Christmas season is the Masturbator Freaky Deak.

The Deakurbator and his hands of fury were a high school engima from years past who Dar met through a mutual friend at a track meet. He seemed deakless enough, so after much persistence she relented and gave him her number. But then on one fateful night when all through Dar's house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse....I hate to wax-poetic but in the spirit of the holidays I'll carry on:  

As Dar was hitting the pillow she then heard her phone,
And on the line was Deak with a deep breath and a moan.
Soon thereafter she heard what sounded like a splatter,
The only vision she had was of her angel food cake batter.
Dar immediately sprung out of bed like an elf,
It was apparent he was touching himself.
She thought to herself good riddance out of mind out of sight,
"Your hands will be the only stimulation you'll ever have, don't call me again, goodnight!"

That was the end of the Masturbator Deak - until the day Dar got Facebook. And it shouldn't come as a big surprise that his hands were at it again:

I think it goes without saying that Dar won't be meeting up with Jolly Old Saint Dick/Deak for any of his hand churned eggnog this weekend.

Whipped Cream Freaky Deak

"Deakie Deakie Deakie can't you see, none of your words will whipnotize me"

Out for Sunday Funday to watch football this past weekend but what it would become was actually Sundae Funday:  2 scoops of freak and a deak on top (and just to clarify, there was no sprinkling of sexual innuendo in that depiction).

Dar and I hit up a sports bar in Faneuil Hall to catch the Patriots/Steelers game, minding to our brewskies while discussing how tight end rookie Gronkowski was creaming the Pittsburgh defense. I portioned out my day for only one serving of insufferable convo - the obligatory debate on whether Brady's tresses look like Justin Bieber's. Nowhere in the dietary plan did I make room for our subsequent run in with Whipped Cream Freaky Deak.

It was the beginning of the 4th quarter and we had just begun looking ahead to next week's Indy game, planning our great escape to dinner before the discourse shifted to the amount of dandruff Brady's coif produces. But as we got up, a well known Deak Estate Developer and Car Deakership Owner who we know only in passing from frequenting The Tits (hotel bar where Old Senator Freaky Deak deaktacked a few weeks ago), arrive and barricade us in at the bar.

Some small talk is made for good Tits measure and we soon announce our dinner departure...to no avail. The Deaks slyly order each of us 2 more beers and 2 Patron shots, locking us into more deaktime and a soliloquy on how the aforementioned locks are stabilizing our QB's balance for improved throwing accuracy. We expedite the drinks down our throats and are more than locked and loaded to leave. The Deak Estate Developer is now sucking face with a woman who turns out to be his engaged assistant so the coast seems clear. 

But as we thank them for our 8 drinks in 10 minutes, and likely save Deak from a sexual harassment lawsuit, they tell us they're coming with. We pull out every deakscuse in the book of deakdom but what can I say, it's a deaky world and we're just living in it.

Next thing you know Dar and I are sitting with Duos Deak at a swanky Waterfront eatery, having the ever so intellectually stimulating discussion on environmentally friendly shampoo. Things seem under deaktrol for the first 20 minutes but that doesn't sustain. Out of deak field the "harmless" Deak Estate Developer starts talking about "the things he is going to do to me after dinner" as he's been "peeled" to me all night. I ask him if he's confusing me with the betrothed deaka from earlier, trying to un-deak the focus from me. But soon thereafter, he asks our waitress for a can of whipped cream "for a nightcap," consequently emulsifying him into the Whipped Cream Freaky Deak.

It's now time for us to banana split.



Freaky Deaky One Liners: What Not to Say

Introducing a new segment today titled,  "Freaky Deaky One Liners: What Not To Say" - pick up lines used on us by Freaky Deaks around the world.

Enjoy our first official non-functioning pick up line:

"Given the opportunity, I would French kiss both of you"

Clearly these aren't for the faint of heart...

UPDATE: White Little Richie Freaky Deak (TEXT)

"A voicemail vasectomy???"

As you might remember, White Little Richie Freaky Deak, the deakical act we met back in September, claimed in a message that texting was too sterile for him and his preference was for voicemails. But since there was no response from Dar to Voicemail 1, Voicemail 2, Voicemail 3 and countless others, it appears he finally snipped them from his repertoire. Yet however unimportant/impotent he finds text messages, he seems to have strapped a pair on, and shot out a huge textual load:

Whether it be voicemails or text messages, he's shooting blanks...

Prostitute Freaky Deaka

"Obsessive-Compulsive Prostitute or O.C.P.:  noun, defined as a prostitute who is obsessed with cleanliness"

First official post on a Freaky Deaka (feminine verbage of Deak), but I'm not sure we should get the champagne flowing quite yet. We do have to get over the emotional herpes, I mean hurdle, of interacting with a whore...

So Dar and I were in Vegas this past weekend on one of our bi-monthly business of pleasure trips - and just to clarify, the operative word here is not "bi" - when we had a run in with a compulsively hygienic and seemingly innocent lady, otherwise known as the Prostitute Freaky Deaka.

We were posted up at the Venetian Hotel casino after a mesmerizing night at Tao watching men in wheelchairs dance/roll on their dubs with scantily clad women, getting fodder for our forthcoming dissertation titled "The Laws of Attraction: Over the Limit, Under the Influence, and Between the Sheets". Our eyes and Dar's feet would soon find out what these women were all about...

As we were sitting by the slots, or sluts as it turned out, waiting for our chaperone of a friend Bryan to cash in his poker chips, a posse of clubby looking deakas in their twenties approach us to admire our pink and black get-ups. We're all about female empowerment by means of boosting the confidence of other women, so we return the deakaments. Some harmless conversation ensues and soon thereafter, we have established that Dar and the soon to be anointed Prostitute Freaky Deaka lived in the same town in Cali a few years prior. During this most riveting of conversations, a person walks by and spills a drink on Dar's shoes, inciting the Deaka-stitute to have an utter deakdown. She incessantly asks Dar if she can wash her feet, but Dar is weary of the rub down.  Eventually Dar gives in, so Deaka grabs her by the hand and brings her to a bathroom about a mile away.

Next thing you know Dar's sitting on a toilet while Prostitute Freaky Deaka and her Street-a-Deak Walking Crew are soaping Dar's feet and shoes, cleaning them from what looked to me to be a vodka soda, an elixir I generally use to clean stains.

All of a sudden we hear the sounds of walkie-talkies and male voices at the door. Our new D.B.F.'s (deaka best friends) seem startled. Four men in uniform enter bathroom and announce, "This is the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department and we are responding to a call from the Venetian security force for two counts of trespassing and harassment."

Dar and I look at each other with bewilderment and terror. How did we manage to get the police on our tail in the most liberal of U.S. cities? And yes, tail turns out to be the operative word.

Three of the officers wrangle up the deakas while the remaining officer takes Dar and I to the side. He says, "Do you realize you're fraternizing with some of Vegas's finest hookers?"

Ok, I don't live under a rock but prostitutes? Really? I say, "I'm not trying to interject here but I think we were thrown for a loop by the fact that they were so concerned with cleanliness."

"Well you know what they say, "No glove, no love. No shampoo, no screw," he says with a wink.

With all this introspection of how the Vegas deaka-counter ensued, I don't think I can hold out from the bubbly much longer. But I suppose we should pour prudently into the flutes so there's no mess, in deference to the O.C.P. Prostitute Freaky Deaka.

UPDATE: Young Senator Freaky Deak

"Pin the tail on the jackass"

Just picked up a call assuming it was a status update from my sculptor on my commissioned Swarovski crystal donkey installation and instead it's the Young Senator Freaky Deak, the married-with-child Democratic politician I met in Newport a couple weeks back.

Before I could even digest the cosmic meaning of why my life was coming up jackasses, Deakitician says he has the most amazing news for me. I jump to the conclusion that he has designated a spot for me on his re-election campaign as fundraising coordinator for the young professionals, and I begin to conceptualize the inaugural event. In two months my donkey installation will be complete so I can lend it to the political operative gratis, albeit I get clearance from the state's campaign financing committee. The sculpture will then function as the buffet centerpiece at the W Hotel kickoff banquet titled "Donkeying for a New Democracy."

But my pipe dreams go up in smoke and Deak ejaculates (for lack of a better word) the most pungent spewing of drivel ever: "Now we can finally consummate our feelings. I'm getting a divorce!"

I am speechless and can barely swallow this admission/emission. Finally I say, "Why? From everything you've told me you have the most amazing wife and baby. People go through adversarial circumstances but there is counseling and ways to come out on top."

He responds, "On top is where I want you to be."

I deak-out and my heart races 100 deakometers per minute. "I don't think you should be saying this to me...This is getting weird," I deaknounce.

"No, no, no. You shouldn't feel that way at all. It's iffy right now but I really want you to come over and we can talk this through. Just not quite yet. I can't let my doorman see me bringing you over until things get more squared away with her, not to mention the surveillance cameras. But soon enough," Deak says.

What deaklusional realm of the universe does he live in? I tell him I have to run, not before reiterating the benefits of couples counseling, even though I personally think that psychoanalysis is jackass-inine.

My own version of the freakin deakin Mr. Ed song keeps playing in my head:

A horse is a horse, of course of course,
But I am not, nor refuse to be,
The source, or centrifugal force,
That is, of course, if we're talking deakvorce.

UPDATE: White Little Richie Freaky Deak (VOICEMAIL)

"If at a millionth time you don't succeed, don't try again..."

White Little Richie Freaky Deak sure likes to hear his own voice and self proclaimed musical ingenuity as heard in his 10+ jam sessions he's left on Dar's voicemail since the "Text is alright, but it's too sterile for me" message. Here's his latest performance, recorded last night:

Beethoven/Mozart he's not, but deaknomenon.....absolutely.

HOT 97.5 FM Freaky Deak (FACEBOOK)

"Freaky Deakeo killed the radio star"

This is Deejay Mel and the Deaktractors spinning the latest "Meet and Deak" mix on Deak Radio 2.0 and HOT 97.5 FM Freaky Deak grabs the number 1 spot on today's Deakshow countdown. Enjoy the stalkery rhythms and calculating cadences of the HOT 97.5 FM Freaky Deak.

As you probably ascertained, I'm trying to get on the same wavelength of HOT 97.5 FM Freaky Deak, in order to understand what jarring frequency he's on. So a couple weeks ago, Dar and I are out for a friend's bday at a Boston club usually not travelled by us, when we happened upon a little contest for a Mercedes, being hosted on air by HOT 97.5 FM Freaky Deak.

The forthcoming deejay scenario would have been completely averted if Dar listened to me tell her that the Mercedes up for grabs looked like an impounded drug trafficking vehicle featured on one of those police auction commercials that just happened to have a Mercedes hood charm strapped to the front. But we're not ones to live in the rearview mirror, shitbox or not, so what's deak is done and done is deak.

We scribble our names down on the sign-up sheet and next thing you know, we are on air with HOT 97.5 FM Deak, rolling dice for rustbucket. He tells us that if you roll "HOT 97.5" in that order you will become the proud owner of an arrest warrant, I mean luxury vehicle. Luck be my lady Dar and she rolls "HOT" which apparently equals absolutely nothing but she somehow manages to swindle him for a $200 gift certificate to the bar. I roll "MJ4E" on my turn, and apathetically convince Deak-jay that it stands for "Michael Jackson Forever," and collect a not too shabby $100. Clearly the prospect of becoming on air personalities pales in comparison to our Create Our Own Consolation Prize and we depart for more thirst quenching pastures.

While the high cost of drinks did put a limit on the $300, let's see that's about 8 drinks each, minus spillage, drink gifting to friends, and the obligatory roofied throwaway, you still might be Creating Your Own Conclusion on what deakveloped. But the only grease we took home with us that night was an XL pizza, hold the deak.

And thus, when Dar received HOT 97.5 FM Freaky Deak's Facebook message a few days ago, we had to put the events on replay and deakpeat, in order to even recall this character. I guess for Deak-jay, chatting on air constituted genuine conversation:

There's dead air right now...

Young Senator Freaky Deak

"Two senators erect?!"
Oh boyyyyyyy what a week! And when I say boy, I don't mean an underage intern who has been inappropriately subjected to the predatory actions of multiple public servants. But if you swap out the sex, age, and profession of the victim and keep the assailants in tact, you might know where I'm headed...

Just when I thought the Old Senator Freaky Deak fulfilled my bi-yearly Massachusetts State Deakitician quota, I had a run-in with the Young Senator Freaky Deak last night in Newport. Okay, he's a State Rep, but for the sake of uniformity let's call him a senator. So Dar and I are on a business of pleasure trip in R.I. and as we're grabbing sustenance outside at the Black Pearl on the wharf, enjoying one of the last mild nights of fall in New England, Young Senator Freaky Deak and his equally deaky brother encroach upon our table.

Deakitician claims to be playing deakman for his unattached brother who has seemingly taken a liking to Dar. He assures me he is a happily married man who has a beautiful wife and newborn. To prove his devotion, he pulls out a photo of his baby, and talks incessantly about his family. The Brothers Deak insist on ordering up drinks for us, even though we were fully stocked, or more accurately stalked. We talk a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and before you know it, Deak wants me to run the young professional component of his re-election campaign. Considering I could potentially get paid to throw parties, I oblige and give him my number.

Meanwhile brother Deak is all up in Dar's personal space, and next thing you know, Young Senator Deak's hand is caressing my shoulder. I push him off and Dar and I discreetly signal to each other that things have taken an iffy turn. To reverse the inadvertent date scenario, I suggest that we transition over to the bar.

But the bar only seems to exacerbate the situation as now that we're standing up, he can put a firm hold on my waist. He plays innocent and tells me he is only being touchy to make all other guys in the bar jealous. But when Deak starts doing the shimmy into my chest and then face, and asks to come back to our hotel for a nightcap, I realize it's time to deakpart.

UPDATE: Husband Freaky Deak (TEXT)

"You're being serviced...with divorce papers"

Husband Freaky Deak has reverted to texting me, the same person he called a "bubble head", since his texts to Dar fell on deaf ears:

It's undeniable things are irreconcilable and needless to say the deakvorce is imminent. It's just a matter of working out the terms of the settlement, and when I say settlement, forget about the Newport mansion and the Aspen condo. The sole term of the agreement is to never contact us ever again.

Old Senator Freaky Deak

"Your erection won't win my election"

At an exclusive hotel bar in Boston that rhymes with tits the other night for our weekly Mel Squared Night (a night out with my dark haired Mel counterpart) when Old Senator Freaky Deak projectile launches into my blue dress, Clinton style. He proceeds to tell us about his political pedigree from former mayor of a large MA city to state senator, a position he has held since my inauguration into this world.

Deakitician, who looks to be pushing 75, boasts about his penthouse pad at the hotel residences and asks us what we are sipping and noshing on. Namely because we have to practically refinance our apartments everytime we got to The Tits for dirties and burgs, and since Extra Dirty Drinkmaker Dave whispers to us that Deak is harmless and will help me push a piece of alcohol by volume legislation, we entertain him White House Social Secretary style.

Soon thereafter, a cheap looking blonde chick, who appears no older than 22, walks in and glares/stares us down, and I'd be remiss not to mention the special edition LV handbag she is carrying. Extra Dirty Dave lets us know that she has been dating Deak on and off for a few months. He overshares to us that the word in the city is he's hung like a horse, or a donkey to be more deakitically correct, and that his cash flow from private ventures keeps the under 30 deak-diggers flocking like a politician to a bathroom stall.

Even with Dollar Signs Deaka prowling around, Deak won't leave my side. He inquires about my aspirations, which I probably should have told him were life, liberty, and the pursuit of non-deakiness, but instead I pontificate about how I have a patent for a vodka based wine cooler that has an alcohol proof rivaling moonshine. The vintage politico invites me to his upstairs crib for a vintage bottle of wine to further discuss how he's going to get my bill heard on the senate floor through such means as a cocktail hour in the State House Library. While the prospect of getting my legislation passed is enticing, I obviously decline his offer although not without the obligatory business card exchange.

So yesterday I'm sitting in my office and the secretary calls me to say she has a so and so on the phone and even though I'm seeing and breathing olives, I am still able to associate said name to a deak. I tell her to put him straight to voicemail. Of course it's the Old Senator Freaky Deak who says he had the most sensational time with me last night but is very unhappy that I stood him up for our lunch date, a date that never existed even in the deakiest of universes where the sky rains extra dirties, and children play soccer with bleu cheese stuffed olives.

UPDATE: White Little Richie Freaky Deak (VOICEMAIL)

"You're harder to get ahold of than the first lady"
Dar's voicemail has apparently become White Little Richie Freaky Deak's own personal recording studio as heard in this morning's message:

UPDATE: Naked Hitchhiker Freaky Deak

"Pitching a tent"

It has now been confirmed--Naked Hitchhiker Freaky Deak is the proud owner of a pay as you go phone! He finally bought a phone to stay in communicado with Dar. Deak just called Dar and asked her to move into his tent on the Vineyard. He said that the first time they were apart for a few minutes at the beach, it wasn't so bad. But now, since they are so insanely in love, the separation is killing him.

Wonder who will get the side of the bed, I mean sleeping bag, closest to the bathroom, I mean forest???

White Little Richie Freaky Deak (VOICEMAIL)

"Tutti Frutti, no booty"
Here's an exercise in visual deakalization. Think Little Richard but white with even more geometric facial hair, a few extra lbs, a fluffier Jheri curl and an even heavier helping of deakical freakiness. Less than a week ago after making the trek to Vermont to see a rather well known folk artist, we had a run in with the White Little Richie Freaky Deak.

Two minutes into the concert, we're approached by White Little Richie Deak, otherwise known as the opening act, who invites us to the VIP section. We agree to go: a) because we were having a hard time seeing and breathing over the unshowered Stevie Nicks's bird nests, and b) because we figured he had the 411 on the after party. But to quote the self-proclaimed architect of Rock N' Roll Mr. Little Richie, "Good Golly Miss Molly", we had no idea how high of creep on the deakical scale we had on our hands. Minutes upon entering VIP, he says to Dar, "Now I really know you're an angel. Our pinkies just touched on the banister and I felt a little piece of heaven."

Well fortunately we caught a break when Deak gets a call to go backstage. Without thinking we give him our number for the soul purpose of getting an invite to the after party.

And now without further ado, I present to you last night's voicemail from the White Little Richie Freaky Deak:

A-Wop-Bop-A-Loo-Lop A-Lop-Bam-Boo, all I gotta say it Eww-Eww-Eww...