Sure, Michael Busey’s “Sausage Castle” looks like True Detective’s pedo-swamp home.

But inside, it’s more like “The Bunny Ranch” meets Warhol’s 60’s era “Factory”.

I just let my eyes meander across a Vice article on this Floridian bog brothel, told through photography. And the images are fantastic. While a lot of the commenters didn’t seem to appreciate it much (the people are dirty and indulgent – and like the saying goes, “it ain’t pretty being easy”), I found them entrancing on both an honest-for-the context and opportunistic – for any context – level (“Who gets to snap these kinds of things everyday?”… “What a great capture of that dog tilting its head one way while the owner tilts his unknowingly the other!”… “Brilliant hair-in-the-wind-with-a-sunburst snap!”)

(Wait – his name’s Busey? Are we sure he’s not kin to the equine mugged actor?)

(Is this a Boxer thing? I feel like I’ve seen this in a meme)

(“Sluts… in the wind… All we are is-…” Mmmkay. Moving on.)

Run in a Florida swamp by the portly Mr. Michael Busey (who – yes – I’ve just confirmed it with my diligent internet research is indeed Gary’s nephew), it’s a kind of a carnal compound. One where your every esoteric fetish can be indulged all in one place… and all at the same time… apparently. Because aside from the fact that the staff of prozzies is a motley crew of harlot sorts – there’s also an equally variety imbued smorgasbord of services offered. Per Vice:

There’s a place in central Florida where all your dreams come true. The weirder ones, anyway. The ones about your most decadent sexual fantasies, the ones where you’re wandering through a party that never ends, or launching eggs into a 500-pound man’s asshole, or fucking a girl while simultaneously taking a shit and showering. You can dance with snakes, ride ponies, and shoot Class 3 machine guns with the self-proclaimed “most ratchet stripper” in Orlando.

Reptiles, ratchets, thickies, skinnies, scat, cats, gats…

They call ‘em the “Busey Beauties” – which is great; I love a good oxymoron.

Neat! Fire blowing!

(Careful, though. Fire may be what you literally blow out your junk from getting blown here.)

…and this. A million times this.

This – hands down, no argument, do not pass go, do not collect the singles carpeting the base of your mobile home swamp stripper pole like pine needles around a Christmas tree one month after the New Year – is the best snap of the bunch. In fact, it may be the best candid snap ever taken. Look at how it serves perfectly as a stereotypical symbolic synecdoche exemplifying why everyone else hates us! Can you think of anything that says ‘murca better than this? Aside from maybe that one viral one of a man-swine at McClown’s drive-through? Sat in a motorized wheelchair? We’ve got: 1.) Obesity (check) 2.) Gun (check) 3.) Cell Phone (check) 4.) Graffiti (check)

Well, that sure was a fun adventure into places I never want to visit sans a quarantine suit.

But I think the most fun bit was this quote from the king of the Sausage Castle himself:

“If you’re not 500 pounds, a midget, or molested by your dad, we don’t have a need for you.”

Heh. And here I thought that picture warranting permanent Smithsonian residency said more than words could.