And yes, I’m using “teabagging” in the O.G. sense. That is, putting one’s nuts where they don’t belong. But before you read this report from the Swedish edition of The Local, please acquaint yourself with the term “bell-end.” Brits, Anglophiles and fans of The Inbetweeners (clip below) already know that a bell-end is the head of one’s cock. So, technically, teabagging isn’t the same as “bell-ending” — but the spirit is the same. Now, back to the case at hand:

The Swedish Police Union has objected to the sacking [editor: helloooo!] of a Skåne police officer who in his blog revealed that he and a colleague secretly dabbed the tips of their sex organs against parts of a car driven by female co-workers.

The National Police Agency’s staff disciplinary board decided in June to dismiss the man with immediate effect after establishing that the officer was indeed behind the indecent blog posts which constituted a serious breach of discipline and were deemed to damage the reputation of the police force…

Writing a blog under the pseudonym Farbror Blå (“Uncle Blue”), the officer revealed that he and his cop buddy “bell-ended” the door handles, window buttons, gear stick, steering wheel, stereo buttons and the police radio buttons, as well as the receiver used to talk to the operations room”…

“When the girls had driven around for an hour or so in the bell-ended police car we had a chat with them and revealed our bell-ending exploits,” and “now we know what a facial expression of bleak anxiety looks like,” were sample of posts from the blog, ending with a smiley face.

‘Uncle Blue’ also wrote in lurid detail about a call-out to a student residence where a mentally unstable young woman allegedly made sexual advances towards both him and his partner.

“We decided we couldn’t force her into institutional care. Being horny isn’t dangerous, after all,” he wrote.

Further blog posts included details of how he shook hands with a man who had just hanged himself, provoking guffaws from his colleagues. He also claimed it felt “damn good” to punch somebody in the mouth.

Yes, it does feel good to punch somebody in the mouth. But the rest of Uncle Blue’s exploits are pretty awful. Which is why the blog’s author was fired when management discovered his online handiwork. Considering this particular policeman had already been suspected of sexual assault, it seemed fair at the time.

But, surprise surprise, the copper claimed his blog was fictional. The Police Union is backing him up and has demanded reinstatement and compensation for the lost income.

The article, by the way, comes with the following footnote: Bell-ending, a neologism derived from a slang term for the glans, is not a word in common English-language usage. In Swedish, it’s called “ollning,” as derived from the word “ollon,” or glans.

On a somewhat related noted, here’s the word “bell-end” in context, from the incomparably hilarious UK program, The Inbetweeners. Depending on where you live, the audio may be NSFW.

Unions take up fight for lewd cop blogger – The Local.

Though the Indian rupee is a major player in world markets, it doesn’t have a recognizable symbol in the manner of the dollar, euro, pound and yen. So, in May 2009, the Indian government announced a contest. All were welcome to submit their designs for the rupee’s new global symbol. Five have now advanced to the finals. They are:

The Cabinet will make its decision on Thursday. My money is on #4.

Indian rupee to get a new symbol- Hindustan Times.

Expect the chicks at Jezebel to be up in arms over this:

Walter Mixa is accused of beating children, raping priests and embezzling money (photo by Dr. Christoph Goldt)

Judging by the headlines, it would seem that Ireland, England and the U.S. are leading the pack when it comes to uncovering and exposing systemic abuse in the Catholic Church. But Germany is wrestling with bad priests, too. The situation is particularly poignant since the current Pope, Benedict XVI, hails from the Fatherland.

The worst of the worst (so far) is Walter Mixa. The Bishop of Augsburg was forced to resign over allegations of several kinds of abuse. And now, it’s coming to light that the Vatican was (surprise, surprise) fully aware of Mixa’s awfulness. From the Local:

Secret documents contain serious allegations of alcoholism and sexual abuse against controversial former Augsburg bishop Walter Mixa, media reports said on Monday.

The Catholic Church file, which describes alcohol abuse and sexual assaults on young priests, was seen by Pope Benedict XVI before he accepted Mixa’s resignation in early May, daily Süddeutsche Zeitung reported.

The resignation followed accusations that he beat children at a Catholic orphanage in the 1970s and 1980s and later misused Church money.

In the file, witnesses from the Bavarian bishop’s inner circle described him as a “severely alcoholic man” who had to drink throughout the day. Other witnesses described sexual attacks on young priests during his time as a parish priest, when he would “go to confession the next morning before he celebrated mass,” daily Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung reported on Sunday.

The new allegations come to light following Mixa’s demands last week that the Vatican review his case. He has also returned to the bishop’s quarters in Augsburg in defiance and accused Bavarian Archbishop Reinhard Marx, as well as the country’s top Archbishop Robert Zollitsch, of not behaving a “brotherly” manner and pressuring him to resign over the case.

So… Will the Vatican take the side of the victims? Will this report be released to the public? Will police be encouraged to pursue prosecutions based on the material in this report? Nein, nein and nein.

By the way, Mixa’s lawyer claims this is “a misunderstanding.”

Secret Mixa file details alcohol and sexual abuse – The Local.

Even when I lived in Prague in 2002, the Czech capital was said to be ‘over.’ That is, overexposed, overdeveloped and overrun by newcomers who weren’t there when shit was still real, man. If you believed the guys who left the U.S. in the late 90s, there was no sense of mystery anywhere in Europe. There was no adventure. And worse yet, no longer anywhere to hide from the creeping American culture.

That’s how it goes in the vast land known as Expatria. Whoever gets there first earns bragging rights for discovering that particular corner of the world. Of course, the problem is — someone else was always there first. In Prague circa 2002, for example, my generation of expats was (at the very least) fourth wave. Then there’s the whole issue of, you know, the local population. While I see great value in living outside of one’s native culture, too many expats are just running away — from their problems, from their uncaring home town, from their mommies, from lots of things. Too many expats treat the world like their playground.

That said, is Prague really, truly, finally, once and for all — over? Here’s why I ask:

T.G.I. Fridays, soulless as it is in the United States, becomes even emptier on Na Příkopě. Ben & Jerry’s, pared down to 10 or so flavors on that same street, becomes muted and out of place, its endearing ice-cream names lost in translation for customers who have never heard of jam-band Phish or Jerry Garcia.

Photo by Walter Novak for the Prague Post

It quickly becomes apparent that the same, strained commercial cultural exchange is taking place at Hooters Prague, which opened June 4. Actually, “exchange” might be the wrong word. Delivery and assembly is the directive from the “black shirts,” Hooters girls from the United States who lead and bark orders like tawdry drill sergeants to slightly bewildered-looking local Hooters recruits.

This produces some very strange scenes. On our visit, a waitress appeared with a plate held aloft and asked, “Calamari?” There were no takers in the small back room, which didn’t seem to register with her. “Nobody ordered calamari?”

What happened next seemed almost scripted, as if management had given the girls cute scenarios to act out, so that smug patrons could swoop in and set them straight. The waitress was in fact holding a plate of onion rings. When that was pointed out to her, she hilariously stood her ground, insisting for a good 15 seconds that it was calamari.

In the end, an American eye for fried circular foodstuffs prevailed. The waitress blushed, giggled and set down a plate of doughy but passable fried onions, which were enjoyed with a side of tangy Thousand Island dressing.

I’m not one of those arrogant, annoying travelers who condemns anyone with a craving for a Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino in, say, Thailand. I’ve savored a Big Mac in Korea, pounded pints of Bud at a TGIF in Trinidad and devoured Pizza Hut in Pakistan. (Yeah, there’s one in Lahore.) Naturally, most of my meals and drinks are sourced locally, but I have no problem with the occasional franchised indulgence.

Still. A Hooters in Prague sounds…awful. And unnecessary. Hooters belongs in Florida, where henpecked husbands need to see titties — any titties — at any cost. For all its midwinter dreariness, Prague is a sexy city. The women are beautiful, smart and sassy. Seeing them dressed in Hooters orange must be like watching a Triple Crown-winning thoroughbred giving pony rides at the state fair.

Maybe they were right, those protesters who smashed the plate glass windows at Prague’s first McDonald’s. Maybe the world is dying — one KFC Twister…one BK Quad Stacker…one order of buffalo wings at a time.

via The Prague Post -  Burgers for boobs.