Saturday, February 18, 2006
Germany, Day Six: "Playa, Don't Jam My Flow!"
Did you have an aunt or uncle that gave or let you do anything but didn't have the responsibility of disciplining you, making your time with them like heaven on Earth?
Yeah, me neither.
But if I had, they would have been like the manager of the hotel we stayed at in Berlin. This woman was awesome. Check that picture above the bed. It's the coolest thing ever. Check the hotel dining room:
The whole place was sweetly art-nouveau'd. It was very pleasing and relaxing to be in, and the building was older than time and had carvings in the ceiling made by extraterrestrial beings:
Robker is the Ultimate Ninja of Paradise City for finding this hotel. Seriously, there is nothing he can do to fall off the undisputed throne of awesome he now sits upon because that hotel was excellent. I don't care how much Sauerkraut he eats, I like that guy.
We spent day five in Berlin checking out the sights and stuff. We went to some museum that, of course, I cannot pronounce or remember, but it was pretty cool, and there wasn't a wait to get in or anything. Also, instead of a tour guide, or "tool guide," as I like to say, you wear headphones that allow you to enter in the display you are looking at for more information. There was an English version, which was obviously there because even the Germans who DON'T speak English would rather listen to a pleasant English voice than a 'German' one.
The three of us split up so that we could focus on our particular interests. This was a museum of antiquity, and I like old stuff, so I looked at everything.
The museum headset was very informative. It saved my life.
I was leaning very close into this statue of Aphrodite
when the heaphone voice said in the most pleasant English ever:
"Notice the stain near the crotch area. This was made when a particularly 'fond' Ancient Roman man masturbated into the statue."
I leapt back so violently, I nearly broke the Zeus behind me. I did not take a picture of the stain. I took the above picture before I heard the "semen" story. I did not get close to that statue again.
Also, Tobey MacGuire was there:
Don't ask me why.
It's the Germans.
I guess they like Spiderman or something.
After the museum we did other stuff. We did stuff before the museum, too, but that stuff isn't that funny, so I'm not telling you about it.
Eventually, we split up and I ended up at this underground record store because I like that, and you know it.
Look at how awesome this Mars Volta poster I found is:
*DROOLS* It's so cool! I stared at it until they made me leave, but not before I got another precious Kent CD, their second Swedish album. Sweet victory!!!
I went on an extra jolly walk back to the hotel to meet my compadres. I stopped at a Donor Kabob shop and picked myself up a sweet, uh...Donor Kabob.
Donor Kabobs are made of turkey shavings from a giant 6 ton turkey leg. Seriously, I don't know how they make this giant "turkey leg" but there is this huge rack of pressed turkey hanging from the ceiling and the waiter, usually Turkish, gets a giant sword like object and cuts slices off for you into some type of pita bread. I wish I had a picture of the giant leg, but I was usually too scared of the Donor Kabob waiters to even look them in the eye, let alone take a photographic image of their giant hanging turkey legs and their samurai swords. They had samurai swords.
Donor Kabobs are another great thing Robker introduced me to. They are really cheap, and I enjoy that they contain only a small chance of sexual side effects and the fact that they do not taste like beaver droppings. Yummy!
I probably ate almost ten Donor Kabobs over the course of the trip. Each tasted differently, but each, like the soundtrack to the film Xanadu, saved my life.
Oh, also, I noticed that, contrary to what we have been told, the Marlboro Man did not die of cancer:
He simply moved to Germany, where he spread the 'good word' EVERYWHERE.
You cannot escape his lasso's grasp. His spurs are made of shining steel, and his heart is made of carcinogenic love.
I then wandered into another old friend, happy walking man:
Happy Walking Man, where have you been? HWM, where have you been when we needed you? Where were you when the children were crying? Where were you when our mothers fed their children with empty breasts?
Happy Walking Man, the Germans can figure out when to cross the street on their own. Happy Walking Man, it is time to come home.
Sweet Booty, surrounded by Starburst, on the hotel room leather couch:
Hatas, you can't stop this train.
Also, the toilet of the hotel was in a separate room out in the hall. After leaving our hotel room that night and taking care of something there, I walked back by the hotel dining room. An old French couple was struggling with an expensive bottle of wine and a cork-remover. The cork was busted. With my MacGyver-like ingenuity (he is my hero, after all), I busted that hateful thing open for them. They offered me some, and even though I don't like wine, I drank with them anyway. When they asked me where I was from, I told them Louisiana. They smiled, nodded, and said they had been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I talked to them for a while, then headed back to our room, settled deep into the black leather couch and sunk into a sweet world of aural debauchery, not knowing what the future held and not caring either way.