Return of the Freaknik Dead

There’s no honor among freaks anymore. What happens at Freaknik won’t stay at Freaknik. You’ll be lapdancing on your mama’s laptop before you make it home safe, a mere footnote to NSFW-blog post history

By Rodney Carmichael Monday April 19, 2010 09:50 PM EDT

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It was like a scene from a George Romero flick, except these zombies had raging hormones and hand-held camcorders. The ratio of dudes to chicks was nearly 20-to-none so whenever a female dared to rear her head from a passing sunroof, the testosterone-fueled, wide-eyed mass swarmed as if they could smell her brain.

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On its deathbed, that’s what Freaknik looked like, circa ’98-’99. So last weekend a handful of clueless promoters (no doubt inspired by T-Pain’s janky Cartoon Network send-up, “Freaknik: The Musical”) tried to bring it back, and those who turned out in hopes of reveling in (or, for my old-heads, reliving) the past bemoaned the fact that there was more police presence than punanny on deck. It was everything — Weaknik, Copnik, FreakNOT! — except what it was supposed to be. You know shit was weak if when one of the most exciting thing to happen was the gray-haired Irishman in this video Riverdancing on that ass.

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But it wasn’t the APD’s unwelcoming committee (or a new Atlanta mayor who’ll be darned if he gets branded as another Bill Campbell three months into his term) that killed Freaknik, it was Al Gore — or whoever’s taking the credit for inventing the Internet nowadays. Technology has purged the innocence that made us all virginal voyeurs and eager exhibitionists half a hip-hop generation ago. Nowadays kids Twitpic naked sext messages of the girl next door, making her a virtual whore before her pubes have filled in.