It started out pleasantly enough. There was a cowboy rubber-duckie that was our official translater for words that didn't carry over any cultural significance such as "Dunkin' Donuts Triple Glaze" and "Git R' Dun."
(I know what you're thinking, so I'll get it out of the way: The band Creed was, in fact, exported to Germany.)
Anyways, filming went well ... depending on who you ask. It was great for us. Lauren creepily live-tweeted Zach's "out-takes" from the backroom. The bad news is that an entire SD memory card was filled solely by Zach's introduction. He kept forgetting his name and somehow his title kept changing into different kinds of "tiger organizers:"
By the end of their visit, we were all rolling around on tables singing along to weird pop songs from 1999. If I spoke German, I would say
"Gute Arbeit, Deutschland! Das nächste Mal, die WM kommt herum, werde ich eine deutsche Flagge im Kreis herum und blasen Luft in diese widerwärtigen Plastikröhrchen winken und machen alle in den allgemeinen Bereich taub, wenn Sie ein Ziel zu machen."
But I don't speak German. So I'll just say it in English:
"Good work, Germany! The next time the World Cup comes around, I'll wave a German flag around in a circle and blow air into those obnoxious plastic tubes and make everyone in the general area deaf when you make a goal."
Now somebody get me a cookie. Nationality is irrelevant here. Any kind of cookie will do.