This is my idea of taking a picture of the front door of the mansion. Makes sense since, you know, I can fly.
This was not over the front door. This is on the mantel. But it looks as if it should be included over the front door, so let's pretend it is.
She is on the mantel and, holy shit, does she need a bikini wax!
When I hear Ricky Nelson's Garden Party, I think of a room like this. Which is all kinds of wrong because I'm not that old (yes, I am) and he was singing about a square garden on Madison Ave. Which, by the way, isn't square, isn't a garden and isn't on Madison Ave.
Let us retire to the palor that does not feature the naked ladies on the fireplace, sirrah.
Duck or eagle? You decide.
Let's go upstairs, shall we?
This looks exactly like a bed where extra nasty shit be going on.
And here is where you write all about the fifty shades of red.
And here is where Agatha Christie locks you up until you all die one by one in the closed room mystery called Ten Little Niggers. Seriously. That is the original name of her book And Then There Were None and the name it was published with in Britain. Which means that the American publishers of 1939 had more sense than the legislature of South Carolina.
Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?.
There are actual gardens at Old Westbury Gardens. Maybe I'll show ya'll those pictures tomorrow.