The Lost History of the Gay Vikings

For centuries these ruthless marauders from Scandinavia terrorized and dominated much of northern Europe and Russia.

They were the Vikings–and five percent of them (at least) were gay!

The first notable Viking raid was against the sacred British isle of Lindisfarne, a monastic castle known for its abundance of precious gold, fine silver, and doable choir boys. The results were horrific and shook straight Europe to its core.

“One of the tricks to being a Viking raider is to never be the last man ravaging a village while all your mates are back at the boat fitting to leave. And that’s why premature ejaculation has been genetically bred into modern Scandinavian men.”

I’m not sure how that relates, but the important question is:  How did all these gay Vikings find love and fulfillment in an age which didn’t even know the meaning of “love and fulfillment,” much less gay love and fulfillment?

Some clues can be found in the epic poems chronicling Scandinavian history, called the Sagas. Of particular interest are that small subset of the Sagas which seem to deal with homosexuality, called the Fagas.

There once was a Viking from Norway

Who much preferred the back doorway.

His wife tried and she tried,

but he never could be plied

to stay home long enough to fuck her.

The failure of the last line to fully rhyme, or even rhyme at all, is typical of the Vikings, who were not great poets–hence their extensive use of the limerick. What’s important for scholars, however, is that these sections of the Fagas give us vital overlooked clues as to why the Vikings were such constant ferocious raiders, forever launching new, more far-flung adventures.

The sea is cold, violent, and ug-leey

But our wives are worse.

Next stop–gay Pareé!

Previous historical theories on the expansion of the Vikings focused on overpopulation, agricultural shortages, and the general shittiness of Scandinavia. But now a new social mechanism can be added to the explanations:

Early societies create all-male militaristic organizations which also attract homosexuals. The gay warriors find a certain fulfillment in military life and especially in the freedom of life “on the road,” causing them to generally excel over their non-gay comrades, rising in the ranks. And of course there’s those in-built organizational skills which gay guys have. And their mastery of gossip etiquette. Rising to the top, however they do it, they gain control over the strategic decision-making of the group. The result: more raids and less time at home.

This same social mechanism was undoubtedly at work during the Crusades. But of course the gay history of the Crusades is much more well known–everyone knows about the strictly celibate Templars and the mostly celibate Hospitallers and the technically celibate Hand-Jobbers. But few people, even students of history, know about these gay berserkers from the north and their beards.

I Lost My Cock at Kandahar

It’s time we reached out and helped a group of wounded warriors who don’t normally get our attention. I’m talking about vets who got their dicks shot off.

These heroes gave their all. They gave more than their all–they gave their part.

“I gave my dick for this country! And a nut. Now I’m home I got what–a purple heart and some thank you’s?”

“When my country came calling, I put everything on the line, including my dick.”

“Do you know how painful it is to be with a woman and have her say ‘Wow, I really like you–it’s too bad you don’t have a dick.‘  That hurts, man. That really hurts. Especially from a whore.”

“No, I don’t’ want a special parade! No one does. Who wants to march under a banner that says ‘Dickless!‘? The fucking Pentagon wanted to give us a special modified Purple Heart and we said “No thanks!‘ No one wants to display a medal that proclaims ‘Hey I’m dickless!‘”

Helping these men is not easy. Sympathy dates often backfire and lead to mutual frustration. Male camaraderie is also hard to cultivate between combat vets and the normal civilian bitches who pass for men.

“It’s a sacrifice no woman can make and very few wives are willing to share.”

“I’ve had quadriplegics feel sorry for me.”

Not everyone is in a position to help. But we’re all in position to help those who are in a position to help. So give to the shady relief organization of your choice–the one with the slick graphics who pull all the right heartstrings. They’ll know what to do.

The Opposite of War

When we sent soldiers to war they often came back with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). But now we’re sending them to Liberia to build hospitals and health infrastructure and everyone loves them there.

So now they’re coming home with the opposite of PTSD–post-ecstatic safety disorder–the same mental illness that afflicted all those Peace Corps freaks in the 60’s and 70’s.

“Ever since my deployment [to West Africa] I just don’t feel threatened anymore. I don’t even want to shoot at targets during training anymore.”

If PTSD resembles a bad acid trip flashback, experts have likened PESD to an overly touchy-feely MDMA session (aka “rolling on X”).

Training sergeant:  “Soldier, why did you fail to discharge your weapon at any of the pop-up targets?!”

Soldier:  “They were all friendlies, Sarg’! Look at ’em–they need schools and bridges and hospitals… and hugs, lots of hugs.”

The effect on military families cannot be overstated:

“Man, I sleep way too deeply now. I’ve become so mellow it drives my spouse crazy. ‘How come nothing upsets you anymore!?’ And then that just makes me laugh which drives them even more crazy.”

“Daddy’s not the same anymore. He lets my little brothers and sisters get away with murder. I had to grow up with bed-checks and mandatory PT every morning.”

The Pentagon has responded by quarantining all soldiers returning from non-warfare operations in West Africa. Not for Ebola, but rather to keep their touchy-feely neo-hippie mindset from infecting the rest of our forces.

It’s especially important, the Pentagon has realized, to keep all elite units such as the Rangers out of non-warfare operations where there is no chance for any old-fashioned Traumatic Stress to keep them on edge.

It turns out some people need to be kept on edge.

I’m Not Rock-Worthy

I recently saw a TV documentary on Joseph Stalin. Yeah, he was bad, yeah he was brutal. But at least the movie of his life can be scored with a thrash-metal soundtrack.

Not everyone can say that. I certainly can’t:

“Alan Brech graduated from the University of Florida’s English Department–where he shredded it!”  [crashing guitars howl and wail]

No, that’ll never work. I’ll never get a hard rock soundtrack to accompany the “story” of my lame suburban life. ‘Never happen, as the grunts used to say back in the world’s most rock-n-roll-worthy war, the Vietnam Conflict (even if most of the actual participants listened to country, soul and Asian folk).

Ironically, while much of the really great early rock music of the 60’s and 70’s was anti-war, now the most rock-n-roll thing is war. According to everything I’ve seen on TV–and that’s quite a lot, thank you very much–war fucking rocks. Advanced weapons systems rock. Dangerous missions rock. Heavy casualties really rocks!

But not every great thing rocks. It’s not that easy. Take Tolkien, for example. Yeah, it’s great, and yeah it seems like it should rock. But it doesn’t. Put a rock soundtrack on anything from Tolkien and the result is corny stupidity causing internal cringes of embarrassment that are the exact opposite of rocking out.

Many a near-great Zeppelin tune has been marred by an unfortunate reference to Mordor and Gollum. Ok, it was only one song, but look how it cast a pall over all their other stuff.

And poor Rush. Poor, poor Rush…

Or opera. I don’t like it but for people who do it must seem great and powerful–just like rock–so what could be a better marriage than rock and opera? Wrong again. Tommy can’t hear you and none of us are listening anymore either.

It’s debatable whether Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart really rocked or not. Yes, Falco made a good case in the abstract, but no one has yet attempted to score a visual portrayal of WAM with rock music. It’s doubtful whether it would work for anything other than his mental breakdown scenes.

Because mental breakdowns rock.

Apparently many things we despise and fear–war, mental breakdowns, crime, stress, addiction, hopelessness, maybe the Orcs from Tokien–really rock.

Butterflies, not so much, 1968 notwithstanding. A bird chomping down on a butterfly with butterfly juice squirting out in slow motion–yeah, that would rock.

So choose your soundtrack and live it well.