I was actually able to pay attention to the rest of the tour now that Andrea’s picture was planted, but shit — I was tired of listening to organ music and Dick’s scripted adages. Furthermore, I realized that there was not a single wheelchair in Chuck’s collection. (Excuse me while I pause here and Google “German wheelchairs.”)
(OMG German Shephards in doggy wheelchairs – abort mission. ABORT MISSION!!)
One of my favorite parts of the tour happened about 2 minutes after I took this picture, and that was when Dick started bitching about his failure to wear suspenders that day while hoisting up his ill-fitting pants.
Then we listened to a machine that some fools consider to be a “calliope.” Don’t be an ignorant asshole, OK? It’s a band organ. If you don’t know the difference, then get off my fucking lawn.
Meanwhile, Shelly was right behind me, sitting at one of the 87 bars, making me all self-conscious and completely paranoid. So I folded my arms and mimicked the facial expressions of the Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All to make it appear that I was Really Into It and hadn’t just committed reverse theft.
The completely-wasted, superfluous wine cellar. When having a wet bar in every room of your house just isn’t enough.
Dick didn’t point out the bottle of Mad Dog this time,which proves he only did that last December in hopes that Andrea would shout, “Mad Dog? Why, that’s my jam!” and then he could take her (and the bottle) up to his creepy, cordoned-off Bayernhof bachelor pad.
The weird, man-made cavern secret passageway that leads from the basement to the indoor pool area is the money shot of the tour. Talk about saving the best for last. Fuck all those weird fake Calliope things!
I wonder how many of Chuck’s old party guests fornicated down in there.
I can’t express how badly I want to swim in this pool. I might even write some poetry about it.
Um, of course there’s a gnome-covered bar in the pool area.
Yeah, that’s what I thought too, until Dick caught me giggling, sighed tiredly and said, “They’re shoeing a horse.”
At the very end of the tour, Dick had Shelly pass out a basket of comment cards.
“And if you’d like to volunteer and do what Shelly does, please leave your contact information on the back of the card,” Dick added, and I practically pushed people into the pool in my mad dash for a comment card.
Like there was going to be any shortage.
At first, I panicked when I realized every single person was filling out a card, but I think I was the only one awesome enough to volunteer my door-shutting, eagle-eyed services.
“You sure you want to do this?” Shelly asked, and I jumped a little, not realizing she had sidled up that close to me.
“Why?” I asked, with a nervous laugh, half-expecting her to clamp some kind of edelweiss-branded handcuff on me and hauling me off for questioning, where I would be forced to admit my picture frame deviancy while fake calliopes blasted out my ear drums from all angles.
“Well, some people can be annoying,” she whispered and then just as I was sure she meant me, she smiled and I realized she was clearly referring to Shoulder-Baring Know-It-All.
Shelly ended up being pretty cool. I know this because I shook her hand and it was pretty cool.
Later that night, I was excitedly telling Henry about my dreams of spending more time at the Bayernhof, getting to know the real Dick (his name is apparently Tony, who knew? I guess everyone who was actually paying attention), and just otherwise immersing myself in weird German crap.
“Yeah, until he finds that picture and goes back and watches the tapes,” Henry said smugly, dashing my dreams.