How dare you steal our culture!

First Khia popped her pussy like this, and I did not speak out — because Khia is iconic.

Via tumblr.com

Then Nicki Minaj gave it up to the best ass eater, and I did not speak out — because this was just like a really good Nicki verse and I am here for every good Nicki verse.

Via kileyycat.tumblr.com

Then Allison Williams had her ass eaten out on Girls and I was like HELL NO. FUCK THIS. IT IS TIME FOR ME TO SPEAK OUT.

HBO / Via imwithkanye.tumblr.com

We ate ass first.

Getty Images/iStockphoto CJMGrafx

View Entire List ›

«Y tú, anda a tu casa y ármate, porque te voy a matar», le dijo José Arcadio Buendía a Prudencio Aguilar el domingo que por fin le ganó una pelea de gallos. La amenaza, que terminó en tormento y este en huida, serviría al autor de Cien años de soledad para fundar Macondo varias páginas más tarde. «Diez minutos después volvió con la lanza cebada de su abuelo. En la puerta de la gallera, donde se había concentrado medio pueblo, Prudencio Aguilar lo esperaba. No tuvo tiempo de defenderse».

No sabría decir qué es lo que más me atrae de la prosa de García Márquez. Tono, estilo y ritmo se confunden en ese costumbrismo insoportable del que nacen paisajes pegajosos y anacrónicos como pozos de brea, de los que es imposible escapar. Sus personajes, inalcanzables, sumidos para siempre en ambientes enrarecidos y gobernados por rutinas distorsionadas y códigos caóticos, se normalizan sin embargo a lo largo del relato hasta que uno siente que ha sido profundamente derrotado y que solo volverá a cruzarse con ellos en el universo del escritor colombiano… Pero no es así. Existe un lugar más allá de los libros en el que también se ignora lo ordinario. Un pequeño territorio confuso y descentrado, ajeno al orden y acaso detenido en el tiempo, donde la realidad hace trizas la ficción. Su nombre es Galicia y, háganme caso, habelas hailas.

Discute en un bar, se va, vuelve vestido de buzo y dispara con un arpón (La Voz de Galicia)

Imagen: La Voz de Galicia.

Lo típico que te encaras con alguien, te vas un momento a ponerte la escafandra y sin darte cuenta te has metido en una pelea. ¡En menudo lugar deja esto a la bravata de José Arcadio Buendía! Nuestro protagonista, natural de Moraña, provincia de Pontevedra, y cuyas iniciales son L.S.D. porque a veces solo hace falta un buen nombre para construir un destino, se percató tras la riña de que únicamente tenía a mano un arpón, y en un ejercicio de coherencia formal se tomó la molestia de vestirse en consonancia con su arma y presentarse en el bar vestido de buzo. «No vayan a decir en Moraña que no sé combinar atuendo y complementos», debió de pensar L.S.D., quien tenía que estar realmente cabreado para continuar queriendo agredir a alguien después de ir hasta su casa, quitarse la ropa, buscar el traje de submarinismo, enfundarse en él y volver hasta el bar. Eso es tenacidad, sí señor.

Detenido por pinchar las ruedas a 70 coches porque «hay poco aire en el mundo» (Antena3)

Imagen: Antena3.

Otro pontevedrés, pero esta vez de Vigo —el único barrio de Ourense que da al mar—. Se ve que al cumplir los veinte años tuvo una epifanía gracias a la cual comprendió que «hay poco aire en el mundo y las ruedas tienen mucho». O al menos eso es lo que declaró ante la policía tras ser detenido. Menos mal que hay gente que piensa en el bienestar de los demás. Sus vecinos sabrán recompensárselo.

Luego os extrañáis de que en Galicia os contestemos «depende» cuando nos preguntáis por dónde se va a algún sitio

Fuente: Raúl Ordóñez.

Poco antes de asesinar a Stephen Albert, Jorge Luis Borges escribía: «A diferencia de Newton y de Schopenhauer, su antepasado no creía en un tiempo uniforme, absoluto. Creía en infinitas series de tiempos, en una red creciente y vertiginosa de tiempos divergentes, convergentes y paralelos. Esa trama de tiempos que se aproximan, se bifurcan, se cortan o que secularmente se ignoran, abarca todas la posibilidades». En algún punto cerca de Ourense y Monforte, los más ancianos cuentan que El jardín de senderos que se bifurcan comenzó a adquirir forma en la mente de Borges tras saber de este lugar. Tal vez en alguno de esos senderos Ourense aún conserve la U de su nomenclatura oficial. Quién sabe.

Acuchilla a un informático que le estaba «hartando con sus tonterías»

Fuente: Qué canteo.

Veamos. Por un lado está F.G., el típico gracioso sin gracia —algo extraño, habida cuenta de que se trata de un informático y además es pontevedrés—. Por otro lado tenemos a J.L., un hombre cansado, muy cansado, de las bromas de F.G. Una mañana, recién llegados a la oficina, F.G. preguntó a J.L. si sabía dónde estaba la calculadora, a lo que este contestó que buscase en los cajones. «¡Pues agárrame los cojones!», respondió el astuto F.G., quien había urdido un complejo y diabólico plan de manipulación dialéctica para llevar a J.L. a donde él quería y poder mofarse así mediante una rima soez que probablemente, y siempre según fuentes policiales, habría llevado preparada de casa. J.L., en un acto lógico y necesario, sacó entonces un abrecartas y se lo clavó doce veces a F.G, quien terminó hospitalizado pero fuera de peligro. A día de hoy todavía no comprendo por qué fue noticia la reacción del bueno de J.L.

El fiscal dice que un hombre pegó a otro «porque le llamó Melendi» (La Región)

Fuente: La Región.

Hace varias décadas, en plena orgía después de un concierto, Mick Jagger echó de menos a Charlie Watts. A su alrededor, en una suite insomne dominada por las drogas y el alcohol, estaban los demás miembros de su banda, algunos amigos, parte del personal técnico y docenas de chicas desnudas follando con cualquiera que se abriese la bragueta ilusionadas con caer, entre polvo y polvo, en la entrepierna de algún Rolling Stone. Watts sació sus diferentes apetitos antes que los demás y se marchó a su habitación, cosa que disgustó a Jagger. Levantó el teléfono, pidió a recepción que le pusiesen con Charlie y cuando este contestó le dijo: «¿Dónde está mi pequeño batería?». Al cabo de un rato, Watts entró en la suite y le noqueó de un puñetazo. «Yo no soy tu pequeño batería —sentenció—. Tú eres mi maldito cantante».

Cualquier motivo es bueno para tumbar a otro hombre de un derechazo. Qué clase de seres civilizados seríamos si no. No está muy claro por qué Vargas Llosa mandó al suelo a García Márquez, aunque las malas lenguas dicen que el colombiano se beneficiaba a la esposa —y prima— del peruano con la excusa de ayudarla a vengarse de su marido por sus continuas infidelidades. Pasión de gavilanes. Tampoco si la frase con la que Materazzi puso fin a la carrera de Zidane después de que este intentase detener los agarrones del italiano ofreciéndole la camiseta al final del partido fue «prefiero a la puta de tu hermana», como al parecer confesó en 2007. Lo que es seguro es que Julio Mario S.C., de treinta y ocho años de edad, en la madrugada del día 18 de enero de 2009 agredió a E.B.F. porque este último se dirigió a él llamándole «Melendi». Nada que objetar.

Regálase can bravo como a puta co pariu, ou págase pra que o leven

Fuente: Hugo Babarro.

La traducción exacta de este cartel cuya fotografía me envió por WhatsApp mi buen amigo Hugo Babarro es: «Se regala perro bravo como la puta que lo parió, o se paga para que se lo lleven». Qué angustia. Ese texto solo puede ser fruto de la frustración y el odio. Un odio inmediato. Instantáneo. Propio de quien lo redacta apenas unos segundos después de ser mordido por el animal, como un acto reflejo. Nótese que se describe un perro bravo «como la puta que lo parió», lo que indica una aversión manifiesta e insana. Además se ofrece la opción de pagar a alguien para que se lleve a la bestia si nadie la quiere regalada, posibilidad que debe de considerarse muy probable para contemplarla desde el principio, a la desesperada. Como el seguro de vida que firmas antes de escalar el Everest.

Para ilustrar su anuncio, y a pesar de lo instintivo de su reacción, el dueño tuvo a bien insertar la imagen de un monstruo canino que después de saltar más de metro y medio está a punto de mutilar la cara de una sonriente señorita a lo Luis Suárez. Un crack, el tío.

Desahuciado del Land Rover en el que vivía en Xinzo de Limia (La voz de Galicia)

Fuente: La voz de Galicia.

Si hay un lugar en el que te pueden desahuciar de un Land Rover, es Galicia. Qué orgulloso estaría de sus compatriotas don Ramón María del Valle-Inclán.

Un hombre de 39 años pereció aplastado en Orense por una gran roca mientras practicaba la zoofilia con una gallina (El Faro de Vigo)

Fuente: El Faro de Vigo.

«El interrogatorio fue para José Arcadio Segundo una revelación. No le sorprendió que el padre le preguntara si había hecho cosas malas con mujer, y contestó honradamente que no, pero se desconcertó con la pregunta de si las había hecho con animales. El primer viernes de mayo comulgó torturado por la curiosidad. Más tarde le hizo la pregunta a Petronio, el enfermo sacristán que vivía en la torre y que según decían se alimentaba de murciélagos, y Petronio le constó:

—Es que hay cristianos corrompidos que hacen sus cosas con las burras.

José Arcadio Segundo siguió demostrando tanta curiosidad, pidió tantas explicaciones, que Petronio perdió la paciencia.

—Yo voy los martes en la noche —confesó—. Si prometes no decírselo a nadie, el otro martes te llevo.

El martes siguiente, en efecto, Petronio bajó de la torre con un banquito de madera que nadie supo hasta entonces para qué servía, y llevó a José Arcadio Segundo a una huerta cercana. El muchacho se aficionó tanto a aquellas incursiones nocturnas, que pasó mucho tiempo antes de que se le viera en la tienda de Catarino».

Los mismos paisajes pegajosos y anacrónicos, como pozos de brea. Los mismos personajes sumidos en ambientes enrarecidos y gobernados por rutinas distorsionadas y códigos caóticos. Las cosas que suceden en Galicia parecen pensadas por un autor inmisericorde.

El pie de foto, en inglés, dice: «Este español de 39 años estaba teniendo relaciones carnales felizmente con un pollo cuando tanto él como el pájaro fueron machacados por una enorme roca. Irónicamente, parece que fueron sus empujones los que provocaron que la piedra se desplazase». No sé ustedes, pero yo advierto cierto recochineo en la descripción. Lo que faltaba. A ver si ahora no va a poder uno follarse a una gallina y morir en el intento sin que la prensa se pitorree. Herminio R.C. fue un romántico incomprendido. Descanse en paz. Que Dios lo tenga en su gloria en algún corral.

Villapene

Fuente: El Correo.

En fin.

«Cuando la necesidad nos arranca palabras sinceras, cae la máscara y aparece el hombre» (Tito Lucrecio Caro)

Fuente: La Voz de Galicia.

Analicemos qué necesita esta persona. Busca una mujer para cuidar de un anciano, pero establece nítidamente qué condiciones debe reunir y qué cualidades invalidarían la candidatura. Al fin y al cabo, hay cosas que no se pueden dejar en manos del azar.

Debe ser ourensana, de treinta y cinco a cuarenta y cinco años, soltera, amante de los animales y la naturaleza, limpia, pulcra —si solo es limpia no es suficiente—, pero atención, ¡también debe ser velluda! Es decir, en caso de que encuentre una mujer que cumpla todos los requisitos pero no tenga abundante vello corporal, no le sirve. Hay que estar mal de la azotea.

Entre las virtudes que las candidatas no pueden tener se encuentran el alcoholismo, el tabaquismo, la descendencia, manías religiosas o políticas, juicios pendientes, cargas familiares, el estreñimiento y las insuficiencias pulmonares. Toma ya. No deja de asombrarme la precisión de quien exige que la cuidadora no padezca de insuficiencia pulmonar. No es una condición al uso, no. Las insuficiencias pulmonares, en concreto, no están permitidas. Y puedo entenderlo, no crean. Tal vez se trate de un anciano con sobrepeso y dificultades motoras al que hay que desplazar de un lado a otro. ¿Pero y el estreñimiento? ¿Cómo carajo puede afectar a la eficacia de la cuidadora lo regular o irregular de sus deposiciones?

Lo mejor es el final. «Yo: igual condiciones». Genial. Sublime. «No os preocupéis, chicas, yo también parezco un oso, respiro bien y cago de puta madre». Supongo que la aclaración lo explica todo.

Adelina Fernández Medela, la sanadora gallega que trató a Jordi Pujol (La Voz de Galicia)

Fuente: La Voz de Galicia.

Qué foto, señores. ¡Qué foto! No le falta ni un detalle. Pero no nos desviemos. Que Pujol contratase los servicios de una sanadora gallega es una de esas cosas que en Galicia siempre serán noticia. Ahora bien, la opinión que ella pueda tener del ex molt honorable president solo puede tener un destino: todas las portadas. «Pujol es un piojoso y un atontado, un papanatas. Ni un vaso de agua me dio». Debemos tener presente lo mucho que los gallegos valoran la hospitalidad, y no ofrecer un refrigerio a Adelina es un detalle muy feo, qué diablos. Claro que primero habría que determinar tanto si ella fue merecedora de la generosidad de su célebre paciente como si él estaba en disposición de agradecer nada. Al fin y al cabo, y si Balzac tenía razón, la ingratitud proviene de la imposibilidad de pagar, y todos sabemos que el pobre Jordi lleva décadas a dos velas.

Si se puede cerrar una finca con un somier, se puede hacer cualquier cosa

Fuente: La Voz de Galicia.

Me sorprende lo mucho que algunos desprecian el feísmo. Donde otros ven un cobertizo toscamente construido con uralita o una casa que a pesar de llevar años habitada nunca ha sido pintada o restaurada, yo veo pragmatismo. Donde algunos ven caminos sin asfaltar o farolas fundidas desde la Segunda República, yo veo austeridad y eficiencia energética. La heterogeneidad arquitectónica, personalidad. La reutilización de objetos, reciclaje. Es inherente al carácter gallego otorgar a cada cosa la importancia que merece y nada más. No es una cuestión de dejadez o vagancia. Si tu casa es acogedora, cómoda, te protege del frío y la lluvia y te agrada su decoración, ¿qué más da que por fuera haya desconchones o cada lado esté revestido de un material diferente? Esa no es la parte que tú ves ni disfrutas. Es la parte que ven los demás, y me parece muy sano que aquí no exista esa clase de competición. Si quieres cerrar una finca y tienes a mano un par de somieres, adelante. Y si quieres que los coches no circulen a más de 40 km/h por tu zona, buena es la tapa vieja de un váter. Pero eso sí, la Ciudad de la Cultura que siga bien recubierta con baldosas de mil euros la unidad para que diga bien bonita. Cualquier cosa menos tolerar el feísmo en el monte Gaiás.

Quiso tener sexo con una puerta y acabó preso

Fuente: Qué Canteo.

El broche de oro. Al ver que no era capaz de abrir la puerta, pensó que tirársela tampoco era tan mala idea. Restregó su pene hasta eyacular y se marchó a esperar el autobús.

En Galicia existen personajes así. Escenas así. Situaciones en las que no es difícil apreciar el vínculo de esta tierra con la locura. Con lo irreal. En las que se advierte la particular naturaleza de un lugar colmado de magias, supersticiones y felices excentricidades. Como sacado de una novela de Gabriel García Márquez.

Esta última imagen no pertenece a un periódico gallego. No es algo que haya sucedido en Galicia, y eso me reconforta. Es agradable saber que hay otros mundos llenos de locos. En realidad, sería excelente descubrir que en todas partes lo irracional tiene tan perfecta cabida como aquí o en Macondo. Pero mientras, yo me quedo en Galicia. Porque no creo que haya un sitio más lógico y cuerdo para vivir. O para morir cepillándose a una gallina.

• El Ensanche se queda desde mañana sin más de 50 plazas de aparcamiento

[body_image width='1300' height='861' path='images/content-images/2015/01/10/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/10/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1420921792.jpg' id='17187']

From left: Shelby, Kinky Kace, the Bunny, Ari, Big LA, Alyssa, Mike Busey, Ratchet Regi, and Sexy Sushi. Photos by Stacy Kranitz. For more pictures, check out our complete gallery of photos of the Sausage Castle

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.

The place I'm talking about is called the Sausage Castle. You can find it in Osceola County, a hick region about an hour away from Walt Disney World. The Castle is a compound built in front of a swampy, feces-infested body of water called Alligator Lake. It's run by 34-year-old Mike Busey, who might be described as a Juggalo version of Willy Wonka (he also happens to be Garey Busey's nephew). Mike, his degenerate cohorts, and a handful of babes who go by "the Busey Beauties" live at the Castle and throw sex-crazed parties for Florida lowlifes and people like Bam Margera and GWAR. It's like a combination of the Island of Misfit Toys and the Pleasure Island from Disney's Pinocchio.

[body_image width='2000' height='1481' path='images/content-images/2015/01/12/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/12/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1421037464.jpg' id='17271']

The Sausage Castle family tree. Illustration by Amanda Lanzone

"If you're not 500 pounds, a midget, or molested by your dad, we don't have a need for you," Mike said.

During all-nighters, it's normal for a girl to fuck another girl with a beer bottle. At one notorious party, Mike piloted a drone as the device yanked an American flag out of a queen's ass and brandished the soiled banner all across his property.

[body_image width='1200' height='795' path='images/content-images/2015/01/12/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/12/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1421036554.jpg' id='17270']

Chaz takes the Bunny for a pony ride

Over the last five years, these party tricks have gained Mike notoriety throughout Central Florida; last year the Orlando Sentinel named him the area's 51st most famous person. Over the summer, he became a full-blown internet phenom when Da Mafia 6ix's video of Ratchet Regi, one of his Beauties, giving a 500-pound man a "lapband dance" at the Gathering of the Juggalos went viral.

I initially met Mike at the Gathering. His freak show intrigued me, mainly because it managed to shock thousands of Juggalos, a group known for relishing dysfunctional shit. Mike operated an outdoor strip club at the festival, where the Busey Beauties gave disabled men in wheelchairs lap dances and sat in a smelly whirlpool. When it came time for their big performance, Mike invited the audience on stage to watch Regi squirt chocolate out of her vagina and then blow a veteran.

"We're like a subgenre of the Juggalos," Regi said of her performance. Mike agreed: "I relate to the Juggalo community so much just because I'm a broke piece of shit who lived in a trailer."

For whatever reason, Mike also related to me. After the Gathering, he invited me to stay with him and his gang of weirdos at the Sausage Castle for a weekend. He promised me I would ride an airboat through Alligator Lake, interview him on record for more than five hours, and get my ass eaten.

[body_image width='1200' height='795' path='images/content-images/2015/01/10/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/10/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1420922039.jpg' id='17189']

Mike, Ari, and Kinky Kace take a dip in the hot tub in their living room

Mike's life hasn't always revolved around running a low-budget Playboy mansion in the Florida swamps. During his teenage years, he dedicated his life to God. He prayed daily and attended a Christian college where he played basketball—he was skinny back then. But the inner politics and hypocrisy of the school turned him off. He rebelled and eventually dropped out.

"From that point forward," Mike said, "let's just say me and the church had a little bit of a vacation."

Like Moses in exile in Midian, Mike entered a depression after he left the church. What was his purpose in life? Apparently, he was born to party. He ended up living with some bros he knew from pulling pranks on people at Downtown Disney. Mike's roommates threw wild parties, and after people noticed the absurd amount of males at the events their place started getting referred to as "the Sausage Castle."

Mike felt like his bros were his brothers, but what makes you popular with your bros rarely makes you popular with your landlord. The house's owner evicted them, devastating Mike. Then he moved into another party house—bringing the Sausage Castle nickname with him—until his new landlord evicted him too.

"[The second Sausage Castle] ended, and I was like, fuck. Then it dawned on me: You know what? We're gonna start naming these motherfuckers as we go—Sausage Castle one, two, three, four, five, six, seven," Mike said. "The Sausage Castle is wherever I and all my stupid shit go."

[body_image width='1200' height='795' path='images/content-images/2015/01/10/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/10/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1420922057.jpg' id='17190']

Sexy Sushi, Ari, and Ratchet Regi regularly breathe fire

Since then, Mike has lived in five more Sausage Castles. He moved into the current, and longest-lasting, Sausage Castle during the recent recession. When he found the house, it was a glorified two-story shack in front of Alligator Lake. According to Mike, it was owned by a good-ole-boy contractor and his wife who lost their fortune in the economic downturn. The house went into foreclosure, and a Jewish landlord Mike calls "Israel" bought the Castle. To this day, Mike rents from him.

To fund the Sausage Castle, Mike rents out rooms to veterans and the Busey Beauties, live-streams events in his house, buses Walt Disney World interns onto the property for "intern parties," charges cover fees at house events, and hosts "Rockstar Weekends," where a person pays a few thousand dollars to live in the Sausage Castle and act out his or her sexual fantasies.

"The fascination with me is I'm this fat broke guy with a small dick and I'm surrounded by rock stars and hot chicks," Mike told me. "I give the average Joe hope he can grow up to be fat with an ugly haircut and bad teeth and fuck beautiful women."

[body_image width='1200' height='795' path='images/content-images/2015/01/11/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/11/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1421015740.jpg' id='17263']

Ari strips on the living room's granite stage

In the past five years, he says, he's spent more than $50,000 transforming the decaying house into the Sausage Castle with weird shit like a granite strip-club stage in the living room that boasts a "Wheel of Debauchery" to inspire salacious activities. Instead of buying standard velvet strip-club chairs, he has surrounded the stage with church pews plastered with porn photos. He's also filled massive fish tanks with rubber dicks that he calls "Dildo Atlantis."

Ande Spade, Inmate Art, and Frog the Artist's murals of American icons like E.T. and Michael Jackson cover the walls, and Fleshlights have been built into wall murals of naked women. (As an advocate for gay rights, Mike also installed a butthole Fleshlight into a mural of a naked man, but someone stole that toy.)

[body_image width='1200' height='795' path='images/content-images/2015/01/11/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/11/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1421015726.jpg' id='17262']

Ratchet Regi plays with her snake in the kitchen, which is covered in photos and panties

"We try to keep it like Disney World. We like to hide dust and construction," Mike said. "We treat this like a set."

If Mike brought his kitchen to Art Basel Miami Beach, he could probably sell the room as an installation piece for $100,000. He removed his microwave and replaced it with a box covered in cheetah-print fabric, where he used to keep a snake. From the ceiling, he hangs panties that girls have given to him. And on the fridge, he keeps photos from parties and of his friends and low-culture celebrities he knows, like Weeman, Bret Michaels, and Michael Jordan's son. Not to mention he's got the condom he bust his virginity nut in hanging on the wall of his office.

[body_image width='1300' height='861' path='images/content-images/2015/01/10/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/10/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1420922212.jpg' id='17192']

Ratchet Regi, Robbie, Alyssa, and Big LA dance at an impromptu pool party

But it's not the decor that makes the Sausage Castle special. It's the people. They come to live with Mike for all kinds of reasons, but it usually boils down to the fact that they're outcasts exiled from their families and hometowns.

Ratchet Regi grew up in Kansas and spends her nights maintaining her status as the "most ratchet stripper in Orlando." An Afghanistan War veteran named Nick, who is plagued by PTSD, lives upstairs with a pack of dogs and smokes weed to keep himself calm. Another veteran named Robbie lives in an outhouse in the back and had to have a doctor install a metal plate into his head after he nearly died in a motocross accident. Among all these rugrats, Naked Ashley walks around the Sausage Castle in the nude all day for no apparent reason. And although Gay Aaron revealed little to me about his personal life, he regularly visits the Sausage Castle to detox from drugs, so I presume he's going through his own shit, just like all the other tenants and regulars.

[body_image width='1300' height='861' path='images/content-images/2015/01/10/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/10/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1420921529.jpg' id='17185']

Kinky Kace in the bedroom Mike calls "the treehouse"

Although the first Sausage Castle served as a bro pad, today's incarnation revolves around the needs of women, gay men, and veterans. Kinky Kace moved to the Castle after she came out as a lesbian in "super racist" Citrus County, Florida. Moving into the Sausage Castle, she told me, allowed her to find self-confidence.

"Every time we have a party, Mike's like, 'Kace—get yourself some pussy! Look at that ratchet bitch right there! She'll suck on your clit for hours,'" she said. "For me, being in a place—a home—where everybody accepts me for what I do or what I want, that gives me moral support."

To repay the Sausage Castle for providing her with a sanctuary, Kace renovated the girls' bathroom, painting it purple and pink, storing vintage Playboys on shelves above the sink, and installing a chandelier. Across from the toilet, she hung a sign that says, "Family, Friends, Forever." She said, "People look at that sign and think, Maybe [the Sausage Castle is] more than I thought."

[body_image width='1300' height='861' path='images/content-images/2015/01/10/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/10/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1420921552.jpg' id='17186']

Mike relaxing with his pugs in his bed

But of all the peculiar characters of the Sausage Castle, Mike might be the freakiest.

"My whole childhood was super fuckin' weird," he recalled. "I remember being four or five years old and burning part of my family's trailer. I blamed it on my sister. So my dad put me in the bathtub and rolled up newspaper and burned it and started taunting me with it like, 'You wanna get burnt, motherfucker? You like that? You like that?' Then he told me to pack all my shit up because he was giving me away. He dropped me off at a fuckin' children's home, drove around, came back, and took me to McDonald's."

Mike spent most of his youth in foster care in South Carolina and also lived in California, Louisiana, and Florida. When he was 13, another foster kid told him the man he thought was his dad wasn't actually his biological father. To this day, Mike has no clue who his real father is.

[body_image width='1200' height='795' path='images/content-images/2015/01/11/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/11/' filename='the-sausage-castle-is-the-most-depraved-and-holsome-house-in-florida-456-body-image-1421015667.jpg' id='17261']

Mike and his alternative family watch 'American Horror Story' together

Without traditional familial ties, Mike created his own with his loved ones and friends who live and hang around the Sausage Castle. Even though they are crazies, covered in poo and period blood, the Sausage Castle residents take care of one another better than many people look after their biological children, siblings, and grandparents.

"I always felt this sense of insecurity, like things weren't stable," Mike said. "I've known different ways of life and different lifestyles growing up, but the Sausage Castle has been the most continuous, steady thing. It's going on, like, 15 years now. I've never had anything in my life last this long, not even a Christmas tradition or a relationship—nothing. It's one of the few places where I find some kind of sick, twisted contentment and inner joy and peace amid the ridiculousness of what I call my life."

Want to see more of the Sausage Castle? Check out the photo gallery of my wild weekend at the craziest house in Florida.

Follow Mike Busey and Mitchell Sunderland on Twitter.

[body_image width='1300' height='861' path='images/content-images/2015/01/12/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/12/' filename='nsfw-photos-of-the-sausage-castle-768-body-image-1421085654.jpg' id='17443']

Photos by Stacy Kranitz

For an entire weekend, I lived at the Sausage Castle, a compound in the Florida swamps where your wildest sexual fantasies can come true. It's run by Mike Busey, a jolly fat guy with bleach-blond hair and a small dick who lives with a group of hot girls known as the Busey Beauties. Like a strip club or casino, time seems to stops once you're inside the Sausage Castle—all the fake vaginas, poop, and barbecue start to blend together into one great Juggalo fever dream. Luckily, photographer Stacy Kranitz accompanied me on my adventure so I could be certain every crazy thing I thought I saw was in fact real.

Stacy's an artist with a capital A. She embeds with communities for a long, long time for her photo projects, capturing her subjects' lives in the process. Her photos are realistic, lyrical, and earnest, which makes her the perfect photographer to study the Sausage Castle. She took hundreds of pictures, and like everything Stacy creates, they were fucking incredible. Here are my favorites from our weekend at the Sausage Castle.

Want more sausage? Read my feature story "Welcome to the Sausage Castle" and visit Mike Busey's website, Instagram, YouTube page, and Twitter.

Psychologist Arthur Aron set up an experiment in which two strangers, a man and a woman, met at the laboratory. They were instructed to discuss the answers to a set of 36 increasingly intimate questions, and then stare into each others eyes for four minutes. What happened? Six months later, they were married, and even invited the psychology lab staff to the wedding.

That was twenty years ago. Mandy Len Catron found herself discussing Dr. Aron’s experiment with an acquaintance at a bar. They decided to recreate that scenario, right then and there, over beers. Catron wrote about the experience at the New York Times, and you can try to guess the outcome. -via Digg

(Image credit: Brian Rea)

¿O es el culo de Mohamid Bakhsh?

  

Over on WSJ.com there is an interesting essay on what the author, a linguist named John McWhorter, thinks will happen with the world's languages in the future. His main argument is that there will be fewer languages but the remaining ones will be simplified from their current versions.

Read more...

You’ve lost a considerable amount of sleep over the Nisha call.

You have tried to recount everything you did on a random day 6 weeks ago at least once.

Just to see if it really is as hard as they say.

Nickelodeon / Via giphy.com

Adnan Syed’s name frequently comes up in your daily conversations.

As do Jay's, Jenn's, Stephanie's...

Via blogger.com

You can never listen to K-Ci and JoJo's "All My Life" the same way again, because that was the song Adnan and Hae danced to at prom.

That was Hae's song.

MTV / Via wordpress.com

You get an eery feeling every time you drive past a Best Buy.

NBC / Via tumblr.com

View Entire List ›

READY, SET, FLICK THE BEAN.

Masturbation can help relieve menstrual cramps in women.

When you masturbate, certain hormones are released that can help alleviate menstrual pain. Masturbation also helps to relax the muscles that are cramping, causing you pain.

FOX

Masturbation can help you sleep.

After masturbating, your blood pressure is low, your body is in a state of relaxation, and your mind is at ease, allowing you to fall into a deeper sleep.

Bravo / Via realitytvgifs.tumblr.com

It can help improve your body image.

Masturbation can allow you to get yourself on a deep, personal level. Getting to know your body better means learning more about it and appreciating it more.

CW

Which means women who masturbate also experience an overall higher self-esteem.

Masturbation not only feels good physically, it makes you feel good mentally as well because you get to know, firsthand, what your amazing body is capable of.

Bravo / Via realitytvgifs.tumblr.com

View Entire List ›

Last week at a dinner party, I met Melbourne residents Masha Lewis and Miranda Weiss. Complete strangers five months ago, the pair are now firm friends. This in itself is not unusual; what makes their story interesting is that what brought them together was a genetic similarity found in their saliva.

Masha and Miranda used 23andme, an at times controversial web-based service that analyzes the DNA of its thousands of users. The process is straightforward: You order a kit online and it arrives by mail to your house; then you register online, spit in a test tube, and send it back in the prepaid packaging for analysis. That's when things get interesting.

The site claims that once their DNA is in the system users will discover things about their distant ancestors, close family members, and, most of all, themselves. For example, Masha found that according to her genetic sequencing she is 99.5 percent European, with 70.4 percent of that being Ashkenazi Jew and 2.7 percent Neanderthal (the European average).

For Miranda, who is of mixed race, determining her genetic makeup was a big reason to sign up. Miranda's mother's ancestry is nearly 100 percent Ashkenazi Jewish, and she is able to name her relatives back several generations. Her father's side of the tree is more complicated—she knew there was African American in there, and possibly Native American, Irish, and even the Igbo tribe of Nigerian Jews. "I've never known exactly what races I had in me," she said. "Now I am finally able to know who I am."

[body_image width='640' height='640' path='images/content-images/2015/01/08/' crop='images/content-images-crops/2015/01/08/' filename='would-you-put-your-genes-on-the-internet-body-image-1420679035.jpg' id='16319']

Miranda (middle) with her mother and daughter

23andMe also claims that predispositions to health conditions can be found through its DNA analysis, although this has been disputed. Masha was able to find out she had potentially elevated risks for psoriasis, breast cancer, and arthritis—and decreased risks for Alzheimer's, glaucoma, and multiple sclerosis. Miranda, who has a history of breast cancer in her family, confirmed her suspicions of having a higher than average risk to develop the condition.

But it's the potential for finding unknown relatives that is perhaps most exciting for potential users. Through its growing database, 23andme can match individuals sharing common genetic ancestry, as it did for our two dinner party guests.

Miranda first messaged Masha through 23andme in December 2013 requesting to share ancestry information after 23andme indicated that they were third or fourth cousins. (You can only see other people's detailed information if they've opted to share that with you.) Masha noticed on Miranda's profile that she lived in Melbourne and asked her where specifically and what her story was.

Fast-forward to August 2014, when Masha had been in Melbourne for about a month and decided to messaged Miranda letting her know she was around. That resulted on an invite to personally meet one another. "I guess in the back of my mind I was thinking I hope this girl's not a weirdo, but since I had just moved to a new country I was eager to make new friends", said Masha.

"Miranda seemed like a great person, and I wanted to be her friend immediately after meeting her," she continued. "We talked about where we've lived, how we met our husbands, mutual friends, and our dislike of Nicolas Cage. Everyone I've told about this experience has nothing but positive things to say. I think we may have even convinced a few other people to get their DNA tested."

Nowadays Masha and Miranda consider one another their closest friends in Melbourne and (physically) hang out at least once every week.

Considering the current ubiquity of social media platforms, genetics-based networks could become the next chapter of the digital revolution. Twitter, Instagram, and Vine allow us to share things with the internet at large; Facebook lets us "friend" people we barely know—but what if there were a social network that could discover strangers who were also family members? Would that give us the sense of making realer, more empathetic connections?

According to psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton, "Our capacity to live in community is affirmed by our capacity to feel empathy, to think and feel as if we were in someone else's mind." In the past, churches, universities, artistic collectives, unions, and sports clubs—all endeavors where face-to-face exchanges are required—constituted the basis of social trust. Without them, people become alienated and lack the trust to relate to one another. In the internet age it's easier than ever to form weak bonds with people through IMs and social media, but it's hard for those bonds to turn into real friendship.

What allowed Masha's and Miranda's first encounter to evolve into an actual relationship was real-time physical proximity, of course, which was more good luck than a conscious plan. But perhaps there's something about that genetic connection—the old-fashioned tie of blood—that made their friendship deepen and emerge from cyberspace to become something real. If so, it's possible that 23andme can do some real good in the world.

Maybe Masha explains the benefits of genetic networking and the forging of new relationships best. Grinning, she told me "a fat inheritance from some distant uncle would have been nice, but I'll settle for Miranda."

Follow Sergio on Twitter.

I keep getting my dreams shattered. When I was a kid I thought t he Rebel Alliance hangar could have been a real stage but it was just one of many matte paintings, an example of ILM's visual sorcery. But the scene of the Emperor coming to the Death Star? I was absolutely, 100-percent convinced that it was real.

Read more...

Rolling Stone recently caught up Marilyn Manson, and wrote a long, weird profile about the now middle-aged singer. There are a lot of fun facts in it: Manson loves grape soda, goes to the gym a lot, and is afraid of bathtubs. Also, he’s a never nude.

Right in the first paragraph, when describing his ideal conditions for lovemaking:

“First, no lights shall be on. ‘I’m just really shy, despite what you’d imagine,’ he says. Second, no underwear shall be slipped farther down than his ankles. ‘I have a phobia that the house is going to catch fire, and I don’t want to be naked,’ he says.”

A never nude, if you don’t know, is a very real condition (also known as “gymnophobia“) popularized by “Arrested Development,” in which a person is unable to be naked for a variety of different reasons.

So: Manson is a never nude. And while he claims it’s out of fear of being unprepared for a fire, it seems more likely that—though he will never admit it—it’s actually in case that bald guy from the New Radicals finally shows up at his mansion to kick his ass in.

[h/t Dlisted | Image: Metal Injection]