Father of H-bomb Dead at 95

oted American physicist Edward Teller, known as the “father of the H-bomb� and the “swearingest man alive,� died Tuesday of acute pulmonary pneumonia. He was 95 fucking years old.

“That guy said ‘Hell’ more than any man alive,� remembered son Arthur Teller. “And we’ll miss him.�

Outspoken and influential in matters of national defense, Teller enjoyed a long career in pushing for bigger and badder ways to blow the United States’ enemies into a mist of lukewarm spittle. In 1939, Teller encouraged Albert Einstein to inform President Roosevelt of the “awesome fucking power� of nuclear fission. Teller thought the splitting of an atom’s nucleus could be tapped to create a weapon that would “make our dickless enemies wish they’d been born dead.�

Soon after the atom bomb was envisioned, it became clear that nuclear fusion, not fission, was a quicker path to realizing Teller’s vision of a “real fucking ass-wiping, holy shit tit-ripping weapon of ball-waxing mass destruction.� Teller quickly took to the idea.

“Yeah… fuck yeah! We’ll blow their asses out through their teeth, the commie fuckers!� Teller enthused.

Teller’s enthusiasm and foul-mouthed pursuit of such a bomb – he called it the “Motherfucker� – won him the title “father of the H-bomb,� a term he thought was “fucking stupid.� The first one-megaton hydrogen bomb was exploded in 1952, blowing the living shit out of a stretch of desert in northern Nevada.

“Gotcha, cocksuckers!� 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 “shitty little room� that “smelled like horse piss,� tended by “frigid dyke nurses� intent on stealing his “goddamned meds� and devouring his “motherloving soul.�

“Hell’s bells, I don’t know what the hell they were thinking when they invaded that fuckin’ hellhole,� were Teller’s last words, dropping his trademark H-bomb several times in reference to the Vietnam War. “We’re gonna kick the runny shit out of those brown bastards like it was a fuckin’ sport, Jack.�

Teller’s 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 1930’s.

“Nazis? Fuckin’ pricks,� Teller once said of the Nazis, fucking pricks. Biographers have marveled at Teller’s 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. Bush’s plans to once again pursue the “Star Wars� Strategic Defense Initiative, an improbable missile defense system of space-based lasers, when he responded to the reporter’s question with an affirmative “Goddamn!� 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.

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If there's any bar out there, buy everyone a drink and put it on my tab. I'm rolling in it, and this time it's not pigshit. I've got more money than I know what to do with since I was declared a disaster.

It's not even based on my physical appearance this time. I recently had a weather phenomenon happen to me that has never happened before. The guys at the meteorological society called it "isolated catastrophe," which is fancy talk for my own private tornado. It happened in my apartment about three weeks ago, but I didn't notice the damage done to my apartment until two weeks ago, it didn't look much different. I sort of remember being lifted a few feet off the ground while I was sleeping, but you never know, it could have been some form of ESP materializing in my unconscious mind. But the state is paying me $500, and I'd much rather have that than mental powers.

I qualified for disaster relief, the first time any single person has ever done that. Though there was a married couple one time in New Jersey, but that may be just a rumor. It's a pretty sweet deal for me, that's all I know. I'm supposed to use the money to clean up my apartment and seek counseling or something, but fat chance. I'm going to blow a fourth of the money on cheese, and the other half I'll invest or just buy luxury items with.

I'm going to spend my money smartly, though. People think money is about buying things you want, but that's for amateurs. Really smart money people know you use money to make more money. They call that investing, or maybe they call it something else, but investing is a real word. You make your money work for you. You use a little money to give the impression of a lot of money. That means buying nice clothes, like a purple suit made of silk and a hat with a giant feather. Then people know you're a high roller.

I've already got my luxury things picked out. I want to buy a car with silver wheels—I thought about gold wheels, but people might steal those. You have to keep silver wheels polished all day, so I'm going to buy a $300 spank rag. Maybe I'll buy two of them, but I suppose I could buy a whole box of monogrammed napkins to do the same job. I also have my eye on a few other expensive things, like a perfume that smells like loose change and a toaster so ritzy it refuses to make toast.

It would be nice to have money, I know that. I get so sick of heating my apartment with hot water bottles and going to the bathroom out the window. Gas, electricity, indoor plumbing—they sound like pretty nice things. So I'm going to invest this money right so I can make some real money later on, keep it flowing in. One of these days I'll have that kind of money, the kind where you don't have to wear the same T-shirt with the DeFranco Family on it for years. I'll have to borrow some food to live on for a while, until the money pays off. I don't want to make the mistake of eating the cash like I did last time I came into some money.

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New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever.

Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes.

This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a shitload of dogs running together like in the old Chuck Wagon commercials. I had to rush and do a half-ass job of setting a parade float on fire just to get home in time to watch the Times Square countdown, a yearly tradition for lazy, television-watching sons of bitches everywhere.

Now, no one needs a call from CNN to catch the breaking news that New Year's television sucks big wet titty. Any time they schedule over two hours of air time for a ten-second event, you know there's going to be more crappy filler than a case of Winky's, those off-brand Twinkie knock-offs Foghat always wants every year for Christmas. About four seconds after the ball drops, they unleash an endless cavalcade of morons strategically positioned around Times Square, standing around saying shit like "There sure are a lot of people here… yep…" I haven't seen that many uncomfortable silences on TV since they gave that narcoleptic Chevy Chase his own late-night show.

After the depressing spectacle of listening to Dick Clark drunk his way through the ball-dropping countdown, I was in heavy need to distraction, so I went quick to the pantry for the case of Safeway beer I'd been saving all year for the occasion. Two minutes after the drop was over, Dick was still on stuck on twenty-seven, and I was really glad I'd saved the beer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs, ladies and gentlemen, and I spilled an entire case of beer on the couch. Some would say that's what I get for opening all the cans at once, but you save time your way, I'll save it mine. I just wish I'd noticed that the beer was spilling sooner, since the couch swelled up so much it pitched me onto Foghat's loveseat, and I accidentally touched way more dog underbelly than I care to admit. Now Foghat won't even look me in the eye, which makes going to his room to use the Super Nintendo especially uncomfortable.

That's right about when the neighborhood mob showed up to get their mailboxes back, which I'd been driving around collecting all night so I could open up my own Mailboxes ETC and hook up some sweet business tax breaks for 2006. I had to take a break from juicing my couch to talk the mob out of setting my neighbor Hamms on fire, because he had about 400 mailboxes lined up in his front yard like some kind of surreal drive-in theater (I didn't want to fuck up my grass). It all ended okay though, since I was able to convince the mob that the mailbox caper was exactly the kind of thing my other neighbor Mitch would do, and he wasn't home, so I had everybody over to my place to help suck the beer out of my couch.

Which may sound like a great time, yeah, but actually it was kind of weird. So screw New Year's. Bricks out.

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