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Father of H-bomb Dead at 95 September 15, 2003 |
Teller, of the huge fucking eyebrows, says âgoodbye,â jailhouse-visit style oted American physicist Edward Teller, known as the âfather of the H-bombâ and the âswearingest man alive,â died Tuesday of acute pulmonary pneumonia. He was 95 fucking years old.
âThat guy said âHellâ more than any man alive,â remembered son Arthur Teller. âAnd weâll miss him.â
Outspoken and influential in matters of national defense, Teller enjoyed a long career in pushing for bigger and badder ways to blow the United Statesâ enemies into a mist of lukewarm spittle. In 1939, Teller encouraged Albert Einstein to inform President Roosevelt of the âawesome fucking powerâ of nuclear fission. Teller thought the splitting of an atomâs nucleus could be tapped to create a weapon that would âmake our dickless enemies wish theyâd been bo...
oted American physicist Edward Teller, known as the âfather of the H-bombâ and the âswearingest man alive,â died Tuesday of acute pulmonary pneumonia. He was 95 fucking years old. âThat guy said âHellâ more than any man alive,â remembered son Arthur Teller. âAnd weâll miss him.â Outspoken and influential in matters of national defense, Teller enjoyed a long career in pushing for bigger and badder ways to blow the United Statesâ enemies into a mist of lukewarm spittle. In 1939, Teller encouraged Albert Einstein to inform President Roosevelt of the âawesome fucking powerâ of nuclear fission. Teller thought the splitting of an atomâs nucleus could be tapped to create a weapon that would âmake our dickless enemies wish theyâd been born dead.â Soon after the atom bomb was envisioned, it became clear that nuclear fusion, not fission, was a quicker path to realizing Tellerâs vision of a âreal fucking ass-wiping, holy shit tit-ripping weapon of ball-waxing mass destruction.â Teller quickly took to the idea. âYeah⌠fuck yeah! Weâll blow their asses out through their teeth, the commie fuckers!â Teller enthused. Tellerâs enthusiasm and foul-mouthed pursuit of such a bomb â he called it the âMotherfuckerâ â won him the title âfather of the H-bomb,â a term he thought was âfucking stupid.â The first one-megaton hydrogen bomb was exploded in 1952, blowing the living shit out of a stretch of desert in northern Nevada. âGotcha, cocksuckers!â Teller was heard to scream in a westerly direction when reached with word of the successful test. According to family sources, Teller died in Stanford, California last Tuesday, in a âshitty little roomâ that âsmelled like horse piss,â tended by âfrigid dyke nursesâ intent on stealing his âgoddamned medsâ and devouring his âmotherloving soul.â âHellâs bells, I donât know what the hell they were thinking when they invaded that fuckinâ hellhole,â were Tellerâs last words, dropping his trademark H-bomb several times in reference to the Vietnam War. âWeâre gonna kick the runny shit out of those brown bastards like it was a fuckinâ sport, Jack.â Tellerâs dark worldview was thought by some to be caused by his experiences with the communist revolution in his native Hungary in 1919, in concert with the rise of Nazism in his adopted home of Germany in the 1930âs. âNazis? Fuckinâ pricks,â Teller once said of the Nazis, fucking pricks. Biographers have marveled at Tellerâs apparent knack for living through the shitty side of history, though many who knew him argue that he would have turned out the same either way. In one of his last recorded interviews in 2001, Teller seemed to lend support to President George W. Bushâs plans to once again pursue the âStar Warsâ Strategic Defense Initiative, an improbable missile defense system of space-based lasers, when he responded to the reporterâs question with an affirmative âGoddamn!â But those close to Teller stress that this was also the same way the late scientist answered the phone, so that conclusion might have been premature. the commune news is all for peace through mutually-assured destruction, but it does make for a boring-assed game of Risk, we have to say. Boner Cunningham is just a fucking lousy reporter, and might we stress we wrote that even before seeing the swearing-based theme of this story.
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 November 24, 2003
Volume 56Dear commune:
Long time no see, guys. Since you put up those curtains and stationed that security guard out front.
I hate to say it, but Iâm starting to feel like Iâm not wanted anymore. Used to be you would sit around on your fat asses twiddling your fucking thumbs waiting for a new letter from Weak Hat. And I was always there for you, dropping in your mailbox unexpectedly like a mailbox-size Charo. I guess you got new friends now. All famous and shit, now the commune donât have time for its old letter chums. Oh, I want "the commune" italicized in that last sentence, âcause I mean that shit sarcastic. You guys are douchebags, and Iâm not being sarcastic saying that.
But Iâm a bigger man than you guys. In fact, stacked one on top of the other I bet Iâm still 9 inches higher than all you guys. You have to stack them sideways, not one on the otherâs shoulders. Letâs be realistic here.
Sorry, I passed out there. What I was saying is I forgive you. When you get right down to it, the commune is a good source of news and swear words. Which I fucking appreciate. All I ask is you keep turning out the great alternative news, the tell-it-like-it-is columns, and that Entertainment column which Iâm ambivalent about. And please publish my letter. And if you can swing it, find a 8,000-foot mountain and carve my likeness into it. For old timesâ sake.
"Weak Hat" Tim McGee Harrisburg, PA
º Last Column: Volume 55 º more columns
Dear commune: Long time no see, guys. Since you put up those curtains and stationed that security guard out front. I hate to say it, but Iâm starting to feel like Iâm not wanted anymore. Used to be you would sit around on your fat asses twiddling your fucking thumbs waiting for a new letter from Weak Hat. And I was always there for you, dropping in your mailbox unexpectedly like a mailbox-size Charo. I guess you got new friends now. All famous and shit, now the commune donât have time for its old letter chums. Oh, I want "the commune" italicized in that last sentence, âcause I mean that shit sarcastic. You guys are douchebags, and Iâm not being sarcastic saying that. But Iâm a bigger man than you guys. In fact, stacked one on top of the other I bet Iâm still 9 inches higher than all you guys. You have to stack them sideways, not one on the otherâs shoulders. Letâs be realistic here. Sorry, I passed out there. What I was saying is I forgive you. When you get right down to it, the commune is a good source of news and swear words. Which I fucking appreciate. All I ask is you keep turning out the great alternative news, the tell-it-like-it-is columns, and that Entertainment column which Iâm ambivalent about. And please publish my letter. And if you can swing it, find a 8,000-foot mountain and carve my likeness into it. For old timesâ sake. "Weak Hat" Tim McGee Harrisburg, PADear "Weak Hat": Thanks for being so understanding about not publishing your letters. After all, the commune gets hundreds of letters every millennium, and we canât fit all those into our regular editions. Mostly because two-thirds of them are from you. Quit writing us already. Itâs nothing personal, itâs just that you frighten us and we fear becoming like you in any respect. As a measure, weâve decided to stop swearing just to be on the safe side. The great alternative news and tell-it-like-it-is columns? Not doing that anymore. Please let us know in the future anything else you like about the commune and weâll take precautionary measures to stop doing that as well. As men are judged by the company they keep, the commune is regarded by the nutholes who write them letters.
the commune Editorâs Note: the commune is not responsible for the stacks of unread letters lying around our officesâif we read them, weâd just be severely depressed visualizing the cretinous nobs slobbering over half-composed thoughts and somehow managing to mail them to us. And weâve made a promise to ourselves to stop letting our readers bring us down.º Last Column: Volume 55º more columns
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|  April 3, 2000
Your Kung Fu is WeakNo dice, no rice, don't think thriceâthe conclusion is made, amigo. Your kung fu is weak. I hate to put the tip on the table before the entre is served, but I gots to clear the air. I'm tired of every time I want to head out to the pub or county fair or some backroom cockfight somewhere every joker and their mother wants to try their kung fu against mine. You think that's an exaggeration? I ain't shitting you to no degree, man, a lot of fucking son-mother team-ups out there, a surprising amount. And they all talk trash about the kung fu of Omar Bricks. Until I put their sorry asses on the straight and narrow. They find out quick (kick?) enough my kung fu is no fucking joke. Some people have stolen kung fu from ancient masters and stuff, but I assure you, commune buddies, I've done no such thing. It took me many years to develop my own kung fu independent of all these other styles, and let me tell you the real bitch is that most all of the animals are takenâthat shit's fucked up. I tried one called "Anaconda" for a while, and it sounded awesome, but since a snake has no arms or legs I got my cheeks kicked many a time trying to fight with my head, tongue, and ass; I decided to pack away the Anaconda kung fu for something else. My next big venture was Hungry Brando kung fu, but I could never gain enough poundage to make it work well, although the theory is entirely feasible. Any fat guys out there want to trounce your opponent, give...
º Last Column: 10-10-SELLOUT º more columns
No dice, no rice, don't think thriceâthe conclusion is made, amigo. Your kung fu is weak. I hate to put the tip on the table before the entre is served, but I gots to clear the air. I'm tired of every time I want to head out to the pub or county fair or some backroom cockfight somewhere every joker and their mother wants to try their kung fu against mine. You think that's an exaggeration? I ain't shitting you to no degree, man, a lot of fucking son-mother team-ups out there, a surprising amount. And they all talk trash about the kung fu of Omar Bricks. Until I put their sorry asses on the straight and narrow. They find out quick (kick?) enough my kung fu is no fucking joke. Some people have stolen kung fu from ancient masters and stuff, but I assure you, commune buddies, I've done no such thing. It took me many years to develop my own kung fu independent of all these other styles, and let me tell you the real bitch is that most all of the animals are takenâthat shit's fucked up. I tried one called "Anaconda" for a while, and it sounded awesome, but since a snake has no arms or legs I got my cheeks kicked many a time trying to fight with my head, tongue, and ass; I decided to pack away the Anaconda kung fu for something else. My next big venture was Hungry Brando kung fu, but I could never gain enough poundage to make it work well, although the theory is entirely feasible. Any fat guys out there want to trounce your opponent, give me a ring sometime, I'll give you the lowdown. After that it was a one third-rate kung fu after another: Has-Been kung fu, Alley Cat kung fu, Wild Tree kung fu, Ricky Martin kung fu (the same as Has-Been kung fu, really, but just a few steps away), and Crunchberry kung fu. All were decent attemptsâlet's see you create a deadly form of martial arts from scratch! But then I stumbled upon the killer kung fu: Drunken In-Law kung fu. Key points in Drunken In-Law kung fu, as designed and copyrighted by Omar Bricks, you thieving prick dogs, are: Disable your opponent with unexpected passes at his spouse/girlfriend/love interest, barring that, a family pet or mom will do. Trip toward them and strike with unexpected strength. Your lack of balance is your friend as you can stand as quickly as you can fall. Give him a supreme tongue-lashing when he isn't expecting it. Never underestimate the value of pretending you've passed out, only to recover and attack them from behind. Create an uncomfortable fighting environment with uncalled for verbal attacks and vulgarity. Strike with wide swings, as if possessing blurred vision multiplying your enemies by two. Grilling utensils can be incorporated for full effects. Hopefully this will be good for a cease and decist to all the assholes out there who wish to challenge the Drunken In-Law kung fu of Omar Bricks. Your kung fu is weak. º Last Column: 10-10-SELLOUTº more columns
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Quote of the Day“We have nothing to fear but Fear itself. Fear is, of course, my rabid pit bull infected with the plague.”
-Franklin de RooseveltFortune 500 CookieA watched pot never boils, and rust never sleeps. Doubt every instinct this week. A friend says sugar cookies turn you queer, for real. Lucky numbers 10, 10, 32, and 1.
Try again later.Top Puns that Got You Shot| 1. | "But waiter, you can't tune a sandwich!" | | 2. | "If you want to get married some time, give me a ring." | | 3. | "Arr, you think me cooking be impressive, you should see me pea soup!" | | 4. | "Come back, man, that's nacho cheese!" | | 5. | "I play bass for Big Dick and the Trojans, we're a rubber band." | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Ray Manatino 4/1/2002 Naomi, I MoanA slut nixes sex in Tulsa --
"Sex at noon taxes."
Evil I did dwell, lewd did I live,
Pull up if I pull up!
Dammit, I'm mad!
Dennis and Edna sinned!
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Don't nod,
Go hang a salami, I'm a lasagna hog.
Reviled did I live, said I, as evil I did deliver --
Lived on Decaf, faced no Devil --
Murder for a jar of red rum.
Red rum, sir, is murder!
I'm, alas, a salamiâŚ
Drab as a fool, aloof as a bardâŚ
Do geese see god?
We panic in a pew.
Niagara, O roar again.
Dammit, I'm mad!
"Naomi," I...
A slut nixes sex in Tulsa --
"Sex at noon taxes."
Evil I did dwell, lewd did I live,
Pull up if I pull up!
Dammit, I'm mad!
Dennis and Edna sinned!
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Don't nod,
Go hang a salami, I'm a lasagna hog.
Reviled did I live, said I, as evil I did deliver --
Lived on Decaf, faced no Devil --
Murder for a jar of red rum.
Red rum, sir, is murder!
I'm, alas, a salamiâŚ
Drab as a fool, aloof as a bardâŚ
Do geese see god?
We panic in a pew.
Niagara, O roar again.
Dammit, I'm mad!
"Naomi," I moan...   |