Archive for the ‘TFTGB’ Category

At the Big Cancer Meeting (which is possibly the single most depressing name for a gathering of people ever) where Hazel, all her doctors, Ma and Pa sit around and discuss what to do about her cancer, she is told that the medicine is keeping her tumors in check, but it will not be able to hold them in small Eastern European states for ever. (I am truly sorry! It is 3 AM here and I am ashamed of myself.) When talking of how they might deal with the fact, that her tumors are not growing, but not going away either, it is decided, that they will “Stay the course” which is doctor-speech for “We’ve run out of ideas, sorry.”
Hazel, for, I believe, the first time, is verbally not cool with just crawling into a corner and waiting to die like a sick cat. All it took was a hot boy and the promise of a trip to the red-light district. Really, Haze? Really?

Our girl Hazel has lived with the threat of imminent death for many years. I understand how that might make her apathetic and why she has to trivialize her illness and possible demise for her own sanity. However, her priorities seem pretty fucked up to me. Maybe I was just never a 16 year old, cancer-ridden straight girl and as such I can never understand. Maybe I’m just a jaded, grumpy, almost 29 year old who has forgotten what being 16 felt like. (Though I swear it was only yesterday.)

Once Hazel gets back home from Depresso-con ’12, Augie calls and she lets him know that the pot-fuelled tour de force of the red-light district might not happen, because her doctors do not want her to die. (Ugh, doctors! Am I right? So lame!) Augie decides to be a total creeper and says he should have just kidnapped Hazel after their Dutch picnic, put her on a plane to Amsterdam and have her die there by drowning in her own lungs. At least then he would have gotten laid. It turns out Augie, much like a certain Mr. Durst, does it all for the nookie (Yeah).
Augie admits he is a virgin and claims it is difficult to get some lovin’ when he is missing a leg. I am thinking he is just using the wrong approach. You do not want to go for the pity fuck, you want to use humour to make the one-leggedness less scary. “Hey girl, you are smokin’, but I’m afraid with someone like you, I don’t have a leg to stand on.” If I was Augie’s wing-woman he might have a limp, but he’d be ballin’ like a pimp. Just sayin’!

*Ahem*

When it is time for beddy-bye-bye, Hazel has a new buddy. A machine called a BIPAP (Bilevel Positive Airway Pressure) that breathes for her so she remains alive. Pretty practical. The machine whirs, rumbles and hums and that makes her think of a pet dragon, which in turn makes me think of Lockheed, Kitty Pryde’s dragon. Yay Lockheed!

The following day Hazel sits in the garden looking at her old swing set. She muses on how she does not want her cancer to kill her before she is dead and yes, finally, thank you! Our heroine has at last decided to live! Maybe she will give up trying to “minimize her crater” or whatever and get her mack on with the Augster. Dude could use some sugar, even if he is a little creepy.
Speaking of Augie, he comes over and the pair decide that the swing set is depressing as fuck and needs to go. I was hoping for a smashy-crashy-trashy bit of destruction, but instead they put it on Craigslist. They have a bit of fun (and manage to make me laugh as well) while coming up with the text for the ad. While waiting for replies, Augie reads aloud from AIA and Hazel falls in love.

After a healthy night of sleep with trusty Lockheed by her side, Hazel wakes up to an email from Woody’s assistant. Simply put they are both excited to see Augie, Hazel and Ma in Amsterdam the following week. Hazel shouts Ma to her side, Cartman style. Ma comes running in wearing only a towel, seems she was trying to relax with a nice bath and my heart breaks into tiny little pieces. So far Ma is my favourite character.
Anyway, the trip is back on and as Hazel is texting Augie, he is already planning how he is going to burn his V-card like it was a draft card in 1967.

Will Ma ever get to relax? Will Lockheed join them on their trip to Amsterdam? Will Augie out-creep himself? I don’t know, but let’s find out immediately. Yes immediately because chapter 9 is tiny and you guys are so nice so I’ve decided to do a double feature this week.
Onwards to chapter nine!

Hazel is back in Sucky Cancer Youth Group Therapy after a long absence. One kid has died and there are some new faces. Nothing much really happens apart from Isaac and Hazel joking about him being blind now and him inviting her over once SCYGT is done.

They play a video game that is only sound and which is voice controlled. I guess it is not really a video game if there is no video… They play an audio game and it seems kind of fun. Having to make up the images in your mind sounds cool and I guess the endless graphics debate is moot. I am on board with the audio game!

Isaac inquires about Hazel’s feelings for Augie and we are again back at the “Not leaving an impact” BS. I feel I have made my feelings very clear on that issue so I will not discuss it further.

Aaaand that is all for chapter nine, told you it was a short one.

Will they ever fucking make it to Amsterdam? Is there an audio games e-sports scene? If so, how do I get started? Guess we will see about that next week. Ta ta!

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I first came out of the closet some 12 years ago. (I say “first” because coming out is not something you do once. It is something you do over and over again your entire life.) In those 12 years I have been asked many questions about my coming out and sexuality in general. Some have been very personal, some weird and some I have been asked many, many times until I developed the ability to recognize the pattern leading up to them and mentally prepare myself to answer yet again.

One such question is “What happened when you came out?”. As you can imagine, that is quite a tricky question to answer briefly. Often I just shrug it off with a short, insufficient answer of “not much really”, so as to not get caught up in a long discussion about religion, genes, mutants, plastic figurines and chainsaws.

But today! Today is the day! This Tuesday in March is the day! This is the day I will attempt to go where no other has gone before. I will reveal secrets so secret, you did not even know you were supposed to not reveal them (if you know them that is). Today, I will explain, in great detail (because, hello my name is Neo and I can turn a simple sentence into an eight line paragraph with at least three parentheses) what happens when you come out of the closet.
There is a but though. (There always is.) Before I can give such an explanation, I must try to make you understand what happens before someone comes out. The lead up to this momentous decision in incredibly important, less so to everyone else, but very much so to the person actually saying the word “Hi World, I am hella freaking _____________(Insert LGBT subtype here)”.

So, without any further ado, let me get to explaining what it is like growing up as an LGBT kid*
*Your experience may vary.

At first you are a child like any other. You play and laugh, get in fights and fall off your bike, get scolded and comforted by people who love you unconditionally. All of this is as natural as the sunrise.

At some point during your childhood, you realize you are different from other kids. You might not know or understand how, but you just know. Somehow things are not quite as they should be. You will try to ignore this feeling. To suppress it and go on with living your life. It will work for a while, but the feeling that something about you is off somehow will keep resurfacing. It is as much a part of who you are, as your measles scars and the illogical safety your covers and favourite stuffed animal give you when you awake from a nightmare.

As you grow older, you begin to get a better sense of your self. There are things you are good at and things you cannot seem to get the hang of. In school some courses are easy, some hard and some people you get along with, some you do not. You have hobbies and friends who share them. All these things feel natural, but soon a new factor comes into your life.
Your peers start talking about the other sex in a way different from what they used to. With a sense of discovery and fear, boys and girls each try to make sense of their feelings for the other.

As with everything in life, some figure it out faster than others. You however do not seem to understand anything at all and now that nagging feeling you try to keep buried at all times comes back with a vengeance. You are unsure whether or not your lack of romantic interest in the other sex and the wrongness you have felt for so long are connected, but it seems possible. You lump them together and again try lock them away in your mind.
Still you worry. You cannot stop yourself from thinking about them and the more you think, the more the two seem to become connected. You start to see them as symptom and cause of what is wrong with you.

Soon enough you learn about people who are different the way you might be different. At first there are nasty, derogatory words thrown around the schoolyard as insults and these give you the impression that different equals disgusting. In an effort to distance yourself from what you think you might be, you may even use the same nasty words. Later in life you will rationalize that you did not really know the meaning of the words or that you were just playing along so as not to lose face. These rationalizations will not make you feel much better about it.

Slowly and with the help of some sex-ed or maybe a crush on someone your own gender, you will come to understand that you are most likely some version of gay. This will seem like the end of the world. Luckily, it is not, but what are you supposed to do with this information?
Your immediate instinct is to follow the queen’s suggestion of “Conceal, don’t feel”. You hide it and try your damnedest not to feel the way you do. You guard your secret like it is the launch code for all the nuclear missiles of the world.

While you are busy hiding yourself away, you realize that it is impossible to stay this way. You are immensely unhappy and there are a myriad of thoughts you are scared to even think. You have become a prisoner in your own mind. That is no life and no way to live.

In the end you decide to come out.

The  moment you make that decision and start planning how and to whom, an automated process is set in motion in a far away and incredibly secret location.

Somewhere, in an enormous warehouse, a computer bleeps (as computers tend to do). A label with your name and address in printed and stuck to the side of a brown cardboard box. The box, still empty of everything but air, travels down a conveyor belt from the office that holds the bleeping and label-printing computer, into a cavernous and dim space.
This room is a maze of shelving units that seemingly reach the sky. The conveyor belt runs a zig zag course between them and each is equipped with a sign and strange robotic arms.
The air is thick with the smell of oil, hot metal and dust, but the box notices none of this, since it is merely a box.

As your empty cardboard box slowly descends into this room, it first comes to a section of shelves filled with uniform green cartridges about the size of a deck of cards. The section is marked “Standard Equipment”.
A robotic arm stirs from its artificial slumber, grabs a green cartridge and dumps it unceremoniously in your cardboard box. The conveyor belt whirs pleasantly as in scoots the box onwards through the maze of sections, shelves and artificial appendages of this truly massive facility.
In some sections the robotic arms seem to disappear in a blur of activity with all the many things they peel from the stacks. In some sections they pick only a few items and in others still they remain eerily motionless, ignoring both the box and everything on the shelves.

Your cardboard box rolls merrily along through sections with signs labelling them things like “Lesbian”, “Vietnamese”, “MTF”, “Sporty”, “Polyamorous”, “Bottom” and countless more. Once it clears the very last section (I believe that is “Hindu”), it is closed, taped up, weighed, marked with sufficient postage and finally put in to a large bin with an “Outgoing packages” sign above.
Soon your very own Coming Out Starter Kit™ is in the mail and en-route to your home.

You might be thinking “Well that sounds neat, but what can I expect when it gets here?” The Coming Out Starter Kit™ contains things to help you move forward in your life as an LGBT person and as a person in general. What those things are will differ greatly depending on many factors of who you are, what you like and where you live. As such every Coming Out Starter Kit™ is unique, because we, as human beings, are unique.

That being said, here is a look at the very first thing added to your cardboard box. The green “Standard Equipment” cartridge is a basic upgrade to your person, initiated at the moment of your first coming-out.
It contains:

  • 1 full size set of thick skin
  • 6 months to 1 years worth of an extreme wish to talk about the fact that you are _____________(Insert LGBT subtype here)
  • 1 permanent wish that people would see beyond fact that you are _____________(Insert LGBT subtype here) to the person you actually are.
  • 1 Gaydar™ – Beta release (Tech support no longer available, no updates scheduled)
  • An unlimited supply of thoughts that you ought to care more about LGBT issues.
  • 1 burning wish to find others who are  _____________(Insert LGBT subtype here) like you.

In some cases your Coming Out Starter Kit™ may not reach you or it may contain the wrong equipment. All you can really do in that case, is make do. I wish you luck.

I hope this answers any and all questions anyone may have about what happens when someone comes out of the closet.
(This blog post is sponsored by The Coming Out Starter Kit Cooperation. “Out, Proud and Well-Equipped since Before Sappho got Sapphic”)

Just in time for Valentine’s Day, a story of what love hate (and drugs) can make you do.

It was a little past 4 in the morning at the Big Gay Party and we were closing up.
The DJ had played his last song and was unplugging a myriad of cables. The bartenders had cried “Last call!” and were mopping up the dregs on the bar top. The floor guys were doing the same thing they had all night; running from the kitchen with empty trays and returning with them brimming with bottles, glasses, lemon slices, straws, lime wedges, chewed up gum and other delicacies. The cloakroom girls were slowly drowning in the rising tide of guests in dire need of their coats, caps and handbags the size of a small car.

As I always do at that particular time of the night, I positioned myself slightly down the corridor that leads to the cloakroom. From there I could catch people drunkenly trying to get back to the bar and I had a decent view of any trouble that might arise.

Closing time is a tricky time. The potential for trouble naturally increases when the entire party crowds together in a narrow hallway. People are drunk and tired, but still hyped up from the mood and the music. They know they ought to head home, but at the same time the morning bars are tempting with their siren song of “Just one more. Postpone the inevitable loneliness and have just. one. mooooore!”
All the little insults, the shade thrown, the stinky eyes sent throughout the night coupled with alcohol, tight quarters and pushing and shoving, run the risk of turning a small misunderstanding into a fully fledged brawl in this pressure cooker environment.

As I stood there, keenly watching the crowd and trying desperately to forget my sore feet, one or two stragglers passed me from behind. The staff check every room carefully to see if anyone has stowed away and usually someone has. Most often in the bathrooms.
Suddenly I heard what could only be described as an anguished roar coming from behind me. I spun around just in time to see a girl rushing down the corridor at full speed. A small bull dyke coming straight at me, fast and with a burning hatred glowing in her eyes. All I had time to do, was to try and step aside, but I wasn’t quite quick enough.

She hit my left shoulder hard. I reacted instinctively, wanting to get her away from me. I wrapped my arm around her waist and pushed her backwards.
Now I am not really sure what happened. Maybe I used more force than I meant to. Maybe she was smaller than I thought. Maybe the adrenaline and pain kicked in and I lost control. Maybe I have latent mutant super strength. I don’t know. All I know is I ended up sending her flying across the floor. It looked like something out of an action movie and I was horrified that I might have hurt her, but at the same time proud that I did something that looked so cool.

We were instantly surrounded by bouncers and as they picked her up and asked her what the hell she did that for, she looked at me with those dazed, glazed, bad trip eyes and mumbled “Sorry, I thought you were my step-dad”.
After checking she was otherwise okay, all that was left to do, was to find her friends and have them take her home.

Poor girl!

And poor my shoulder when I woke up the next day! Ice packs are not just for athletes. Sometimes chubby lesbian bar-managers need them too.

The following party she showed up, even though she was obviously banned. She didn’t make a fuss and she told the bouncer she hadn’t come to party, she just wanted to speak to me if I had a moment to spare. Naturally I took the time. She was very apologetic and said the incident had opened her eyes. She would try to cut down on the partying. She was nice. She had even bought me a chocolate bar as an apology.

I like chocolate!

I have mentioned them a few times before, but I feel it is time to tell you guys a bit more about our bouncers. At our Big Gay Parties we always have 3 bouncers to help us deal with troublesome guests and other strange happenings. The two of them are Mickey and Bob, the third is one of a revolving cast of local bouncers.

Mickey is only slightly taller than me (I am 171 cm tall (5′ 7 for the Handegg enthusiasts, 2.5 arşin for the Ottomans)), but he is extremely muscular. I don’t mean body builder muscly, though I am sure he goes to the gym often, no he is big in the scary kind of way. That way where you know he could put you on the ground before you even realized you’d done anything wrong. You take one look at him and decide “Nah I don’t feel pouring water on a grease fire is in my best interest”. The funny thing is, Mickey is the biggest joker of the group and I rarely see him without a big grin plastered on his face.

Bob is older than most of the other bouncers and is generally kind of quiet. I’ve never actually asked, because these are not the things we talk about, but I’d say he is pushing fifty. He is in charge of booking, payment, all that administrative stuff. Bob is just an all ’round jovial guy. All smiles and laughter, even when he is dealing with fights or people being dicks he is always happy. It is a great attitude to have when dealing with drunk and angry folks, because it’s hard to stay mad at someone who is kind and smiles at you. I think that might also be why he is the only one of our bouncers who doesn’t wear a stab vest. He says he has never been stabbed, so wearing the vest would only invite bad luck.

Mickey and Bob have been with us for at least 10 years and so naturally a lot of our guests know them pretty well. Both the nice ones and the troublemakers. This is extremely advantageous because it creates a safe atmosphere and at the same time I don’t have to tell them who to keep an eye on. They know that way better than I do.

All our bouncers like to joke around and that is never more evident than when they have a new guy on shift. Some well-meant hazing is inevitable and some of our regulars get in on the fun from time to time. It usually falls into three rounds of trials.

Round one:
The bouncers are all straight males, very masculine, rough and tough. So when a new guy shows up for his first shift at The Big Gay Party he is often in for a bit of a shock. First off because Bob likes to not tell them in advance that it’s an LGBT party. Then the guys will continuously ask him if he’s okay, anything troubling him, does he have any questions? Some of the bouncers have never even met a gay guy before, so watching them being thrown head first in the deep end is hilarious. They are flabbergasted and completely out of their comfort-zone, all while trying to act cool because it’s politically incorrect not to be 100% LGBT positive. Oh the laughs!

Round Two:
Quite a few of our regulars are very feminine guys who love themselves a good hunk. Watching them giggling, making lewd comments and sending hungry looks at the new guy is a local pastime here. The more he blushes the higher the cackles ring out over the crowd.

Round Three:
The finale consists of Mickey being an asshole and taking a gaggle of drag queens aside and buying them a round or two to shamelessly hit on the new guy. He is overrun by sloppy come-ons that just get worse and worse and usually ends up stumbling over his words and running away to the back-stage area. Poor guy.

After going through all of that he is rewarded with many manly pats on the back and shoutings of “You’re one of us now” from the others and I make sure he gets a beer as soon as we close. (For the record we’ve never scared anyone away. Yet.)

Our bouncers are really great guys and it’s clear they love their work. Oh and watching 3 tired bartenders and 3 big bouncers chase each other around the empty rooms with ice cubes at the end of a long night is pretty friggin’ great!

It’s been very, very hot here lately which is great for beer-sales and so I called the brewery today to order more beer. I waited through their usual on-hold mix of bad 80’s pop music, as I went to open every window I could find and turn the air-con down so low, it started shivering in anticipation. Still waiting, I returned to my desk quietly humming “Together we can take it to the end of the line, Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time (ALL OF THE TI-I-IME)”, when the music abruptly clicked off and a nasal voice cut in with “Order and Shipping, this is Bonnie, how can I help you?”.

I gave my name, the name of the business and our customer number and started to list the order I wanted to place when she interrupted me “I’m sorry, we don’t seem to have you on file. Would you like a sales-rep to come out and discuss a contract with the brewery?”.

I politely tried to explain that we in fact had been with the brewery for about 5 years, already had a sales-rep I spoke with quite frequently and that I knew they had us on file since I ordered from them only two weeks prior.

Bonnie would have none of it.

I like to imagine Bonnie as a thoroughly middle-class, middle-aged kinda gal. Actually, just the kind of woman who would use the word “gal” to describe herself. I picture her in a summer dress with large, colourful flowers, her breasts big and heavy as they nearly spill out when she leans forward. Her belly beautiful and round, perfectly matching her wide hips and thick thighs.

I see her as just what a woman is to me, round and warm and full of laughter. But right now she had no time for smiles, she could only spare the moment it took to tell me I was in no way in her system. And that was the end of it as far as she was concerned!

I tried to explain again, but her screen told no lies and I was merely a faint voice in her ear.In the end I hung up and called our sales-rep, Matt.

Matt’s what anyone would call a “great guy”. And he is just that, a great guy! He’s the kind of person who’ll strike a deal and make you feel like you really got the biggest possible outcome, and maybe you did. He’s the guy you call and everything is just possible. You want 5 girls in tiny elf costumes for a Christmas-themed party in July? You call Matt, he delivers! You want 50 kegs delivered Sunday night to a small cabin in the middle-of-nowhere? Give Matt a holler, sure enough the kegs show up! He’s a great guy all right.

So I called Matt and I asked what the hell was up, he promised to check it out and call me back within half an hour. Not five minutes later he was back in my ear. “Uuuuh I dunno man, something’s gone FUBAR in Order and Shipping. They can’t find you anywhere in their systems. It’s like you’ve never even been entered.”

We shuffled some ideas and a few “Computers man, they’ll be the death of us all” comments back and forth before I managed to convince him to take my order until we sorted this out.

With the promise of beer safely on the way, I leaned back in my chair and mentally prepared to tackle the books. I was only just opening the safe and taking out the boxed money when my phone rang. Just like that, Bonnie was back with me. Her nasal pronunciation crackled through the speaker “Hi, yeah can I get your customer number again?”. I repeated and she asked for my name and the name of the bar and then went straight on to “So what’d you want to order?”. I stopped her to ask if she had managed to find me in the system and her only answer was “Yeah it seemed like you’d ended on the “no-sale” list”. I could get nothing more out of her and so I just placed the order and thanked her for finding the file.

After hanging up I immediately called Matt, I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t get a double order and this “no-sale” list was intriguing. Matt told me list was where they put the bars who didn’t pay their bills on time or with which they’d had other problems. I was astounded. How’d we end up there? We always paid our bills on time and we weren’t a drug den or a gang hangout.

Well it turned out the brewery had recently fired an employee for racist and homophobic slurs and Matt suspected him of putting the only gay bar among their customers, us, on the list to try and force us away from the brewery. He apologized profusely and made it very clear that homophobia was very far from the brewery’s policies. I told him there was absolutely no need, the fact that they sponsor 10k to our participation in Pride every year (and their selection of on-hold music) was more than enough proof of their good intentions.

In the end, all was well (except for the employee who got fired I suppose) and my beer was on the way. Moral of the story: Don’t be a fuckin’ dick, okay?

I see the punch coming before she even knows she’s gonna throw it. I might not be able to read body-language, but I’ve been in enough fights to recognize what’s happening. I can tell from the jerky way her upper-body moves, from the pitch of her voice, from the cornered look in her eyes. She feels the situation slipping out of her control, her instinct is moving in, ready to pounce, ready to take over.

I know I can take the hit. She’s scrawny. A full head shorter than me, she won’t have much power and she won’t know how to throw her weight behind the punch. She’s inexperienced. She’s used to people backing down when she lets her anger out. She’s never been up against someone like me, she’ll never have experienced anger like mine.

I look at her. Size her up. Little dyke from the good part of town, what does she know about anger? What does she know about respect. The REAL kind of respect! The kind you earn with your fists. The kind you receive with blood on your hands and the dirt of the gutter on your clothes. She’s gonna learn.

Her fist is flying at me. I feel the deep red burn in my jaw before she even connects. I fucking love that burn! It makes me feel so young again, so alive. I remember the good old days, they come back in flashes. I see familiar faces, gritted teeth and all.

 I could still move. Let her hand slip by me, grab her elbow, turn to the left, pull her forward, sink my fist into her gut, tap my foot behind her knee and force her down on the floor.

I take the hit. My neck twists painfully to the left once her fist connects with my jaw. I don’t utter a sound, I don’t clasp my face and I don’t show any surprise or pain. I stand fast, look her straight in the face, I search for her eyes and I hold them. I see a mixture of triumph and fear.

Southpaw.  The information shoots through my head, lets me know what to do and expect. I shake it off. It doesn’t matter either way, I can’t hit her back. My right fist is clenched tight, my elbow half-cocked, my shoulder puling back before I regain control. It takes every single grain of willpower I can muster.

My whole body is screaming at my brain. “Carte blanche! She hit you, return the favour!” Hit her, hit her, hit her. HIT HER! Make her pay, make her regret it! Make her wish she’d never set foot here. Make her never want to show her face again. Make her feel what anger can do. Make her taste it!”

3 years ago I would have. I would have used the stunned second of “Damn I never hit nobody before” she’s experiencing right now to my advantage. I’d have let my right hand fly as a fist at her nose. Or flat at her ear. Left foot stomping her right. Left fist pumped in her solar plexus. Knee to the face when she buckled over. A slight push to make her lose balance and fall. Done

I see it. It plays out in my mind clear as day. Like graceful dance-moves I see her body reacting to the hits. A shudder here, a twist there. Muscles flexing and blood flowing. Bones breaking. God that *snap*, it’s such a definite sound. It’s the sound of no return.

But no! I can’t. I musn’t. My whole life has taught me, that in situations like these, violence is most definitely the answer. But violence is no longer an answer I’m allowed to give. I am uprooted. I am a fish out of water. A brawler no longer in the streets.

I do the only thing I can do. I aim for awe. I take the punch, I don’t betray any pain, I hold myself back and I just look at her. Daring her to do it again. No words necessary, we speak beyond mouths and bodies now. I beg her to go for another punch, I plead with her. “Just one more, please! Cos I know I won’t be able to stop myself twice, so come on! HIT ME!”

She bows her head. It’s all over. A bouncer takes her away and I curse everything around me. I know I won’t feel the hit until tomorrow, but the adrenaline will be with me all night. The only way is sleeping it off or fucking it out. Looks like I’m sleeping it off. Fuck this shit!

There are so many words in the English language that cannot properly be translated into Danish. Mainly because English has so many more words, but also because some words have a very precise meaning or are only used in a very specific context and thus when translating, you run the risk of having to use a much broader and general term. This way you tend to lose some of the original finesse and meaning the word bears with it.

I deal with this on an almost daily basis, but what really throws me, is when it happens inversely. Every once in a while I will stumble upon a Danish word that cannot easily be translated to English. This especially happens when describing bodies of water. We have a lot of terms for those. This country doesn’t consist of 443 islands for nothing.

The reason behind all this rambling about words and translations is, that it happened today. I sat down to write an anthropological piece, because I know you guys like those, but I floundered when trying to translate the name of the LGBT subtype I wanted to portray. I thought long and hard, I Googled, I searched Urban Dictionary, but I came up empty-handed.

The word that gave me so much trouble was Kamplebbe. A literal translation would be Fight Dyke, the closest I could get to what she is like, is Bull Dyke, but she is oh so much more than just that. What is she? Well let’s once again (muff)dive into the mysterious world of The Gay Bar and learn about the strange creatures that frequent it.

The Kamplebbe is usually a short, broad (but not fat) butch. “How butch?” you might ask, my reply: “The butchiest!”. Let’s take a peek at her.

Fauxhawk on top. Always styled with enough hairgel to allow one to commit Seppuku with it. When she’s too lazy to shovel on the hairgel there is her extensive cap selection to chose from, all still with the stickers on, naturally. Sidenote: If you get in a fight with a Kamplebbe and you want to make sure she hits you first, just flip the cap from her head. Insta-fight!

T-shirts. Always T-shirts. They can be woman’s style or men’s oversize, but she never wears anything more feminine than that. Often they will have some kind of design, the more misogynistic or “gangsta” the better. We’re talking slogans with “bitches”, “hoes” or “pussy”, dollar-signs, silhouetted guns, gang signs or strippers. Real classy stuff! These things apparently make our Kamplebbe feel pretty badass. I know I’d feel real badass too if I had “Big Booty Bitches” plastered across my chest.

The Kamplebbe’s pants are always baggy, probably hang down below her ass. How else would the world know she wears boxer briefs? Sidenote: I wholly endorse wearing boxer briefs, they are so friggin’ comfortable compared to panties, and I can’t even think about thongs without shuddering. It’s the “everyone must know the brand and pattern of my underwear”-mindset I don’t understand.

Around her thigh and ass will at times hang the international sign for “I will punch you without a second thought”‘; The wallet Chain. Known to instantly boost your coolness-factor by at least 20%, this item is a must have for a Kamplebbe. I swear I’ve seen dykes carrying a credit card holder and still wear a wallet-chain, that’s commitment!

On her feet we find the obligatory sneakers. Preferably the clunky skater-type and the more tattered the better. As with the wallet-chain this sends a signal that the Kamplebbe is just badass. She is literally too cool  to care.

Her girlfriends are always incredibly femme. You know how the worst question you can ask a lesbian couple is “so, like, who’s the guy and who’s the girl?”. Well here the question is both valid and superfluous at the same time. Valid because they will actually take on these roles and will most likely give you a straight answer. Superfluous because you can tell from 100 meters (109.4 yards for the inventors of anal bleaching (we all look upon your in terror) and 0.54 international cable for the merry men of the sea) away exactly who’s the dude (hint: it’s the Kamplebbe).

Not only are her girlfriends femme, but they are a special brand of femme; the low self-esteem kind. The Kamplebbe treats them like crap and they put up with it because they sadly don’t think they deserve any better. Don’t think domestic abuse doesn’t happen simply because both partners are women (or men for that matter), it does. It is a big problem that it’s so invisible because the victims often feel they have nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

Sometimes being a sexual minority makes seeking help for things, medical, mental or other, very difficult. Simply because you are always afraid, that that your divergence will in some way be used against you or as a means of rejecting your experiences. A lot of people in that situation feel the only viable option, is drunkenly blurting out their burdens to their friendly neighbourhood gay bartender. It breaks my heart every time.

But back to the Kamplebbe. Now I know I have written on the subject of drugs in relation to the Powder Puffs, but I feel that if I do not mention it, it becomes a silent issue much like domestic abuse, the over-sexualization of young guys and the heterophobia that are all thriving in the community, simply because no one will address the issues.

Drug and alcohol abuse is not just common among the Kamplebbe-demographic, it’s the norm. I mostly bust them with coke, MDMA and speed (not counting the copious amount of cannabis I find), but heavy drinking is also a crowd pleaser. Simply put they’ll try anything that will enhance and prolong their nights out. And nights out are not kept strictly to the weekend either, any reason to party, they will use and abuse it.

Being a bartender I’m all for the party-crowd, but after a while you start to see these guys breaking down. The drugs and alcohol take over and they no longer party for fun, but because it’s a necessity. They fall apart and waste away in front of your eyes and there’s really not much you can do about it.

Now someone with a bit of knowledge about the LGBT community might rightfully state, that many of the above statements fit very well with the description of a standard butch. What then makes the Kamplebbe so unique? Well the name sort of explains it; Kamp means fight or battle and that is the final defining feature of the Kamplebbe. She is incredibly short-tempered and will never back down from a fight. Actually she will often be the instigator. She feels the most badass when she gets to intimidate or even hurt someone, both physically and psychologically. She gets off on it. It makes her feel large and in charge.

After reading this description of the fascinating Kamplebbe, you can imagine the trouble a couple of them can cause in a nice little gay bar such as mine. Luckily they mainly frequent the parties and there I have my bouncers to keep an eye on them. Still 90% of the ‘incidents’ we have at the parties involve one or more of them. We catch them with drugs, they start fights or just misbehave in some way and I’ll tell you one can get pretty fucking tired of chucking out the same cunts every month. I ban them for as long as I can, but they sneak in and when I catch them and chuck ’em out again, the trouble starts up anew.

There’s one silver lining though: I’d say you’ve never really lived until you’ve seen three barrel-chested bouncers struggling with a tiny little lesbian. Her face distorted in a scream of expletives that hold no truth or meaning to anyone but herself and her limbs flailing like a shipwrecked sailor’s when vainly attempting to attract the attention of a passing ship. It is indeed a show-stopping routine and even with a replay every month it never ceases to amaze and astound me.

Everything the Kamplebbe is and wants to be, is based on attitude and perceived image. This is my main issue with this sub-group. Why is it so important to look cool, that you would give up any individuality for it? Why act like someone else when you could simply be you? Aren’t the coolest people you know the ones who don’t try to be cool at all?

I guess I’m just not cool enough to understand.