I had two great uncles who worked on the Manhattan project. The first was a physicist and was featured in Life magazine briefly for his work after the war.

The second was more or less a low-level technician/lab gopher whose job, among other things, was to cart radioactive material around various lab facilities.

That one did not find any renown for his work, but what he did get were lesions of necrotic flesh on his shins for the rest of his life that never healed. The doctors were baffled to describe a cause, but as near as he could guess, it was from walking flatbed carts of radioactive material around during the development of the bomb.

The trouble was, he couldn't prove it to anyone. The Feds didn't describe his position in any record-keeping, so when he went to claim for the injury, they had no record of him as a government employee, anywhere. What he did have, however, were all his pay stubs, so eventually they did relent and he got some sort of compensation for it.

My wife texts me from upstairs, she wants to be tucked into bed while I stay up developing my hobby project Tremors game.

The text reads "Get off the Internetanyahu and love bomb me instead <3"

I respond "You'll always be my Bibi"

"Aww, Huzbullah."
"Oh, Mamas."

Then of course, I tuck her in. I'll be up later once she's out cold and I feel like enough progress has been made.

I hope Schiffer and Homa have as good of a terrorist marriage as we do. As much as I whine about my foid, this is why I keep her around.