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.
