WPRB Births the Greatest Expletive of the 20th Century, by Stephen Pribula

You know how sometimes you doubt your own recollection, when something is just too good to be true? I have a memory like that of WPRB. About twenty-five odd years ago I witnessed one of the watershed events of this century in the studios in the basement of Holder Hall.  Your requests for historical material on the station has led me to reconsider that recollection. Only after careful reflection have I decided that it did indeed happen as I remember it and that I’m not just imagining things. I was, however, convinced when I realized that something in such utter bad taste could have only happened at WPRB. You see, I was present for the very first utterance of the greatest expletive of the twentieth century: “Fucking A.” 

It happened sometime in 1961, maybe 1962, but no later than that I am sure. I defy anyone to find an earlier use of that lyrical profanity. (Don’t confuse the phrase with “A-Okay” made so popular by the astronauts.) Of course, since then the phrase has captivated the English speaking world, being of particular attraction to those serving in the military. No doubt the prevalence of war in the national conscience and consciousness since then has accounted for the rapid dissemination of the phrase. It wasn’t long before the phrase rivaled and then surpassed other gems, like “snafu” and “bubkus.” You have to admit that “fucking A” flows so easily off the tongue. It has the natural flavor of apple pie to it. It’s difficult to appreciate it for what it is, a truly seminal expression, the ultimate primal scream, the shadow of humanity’s deepest frustrations leaping off of the wall of Plato’s cave into the concrete world.

It all was due to Studio A.  In those days everything at WPRB was broadcast out of Studio B, an intimate glassed-in box only large enough to hold a DJ and a few syncophants. Studio A was larger, but its console never worked. If it weren’t for the fact that the large conference table in Studio A was a perfect place to set down those big boxes that pizza comes in (even then!), Studio A would have been of no use whatsoever. Two members of the engineering staff, Minot and Auslander, decided to change this, though I’m not sure why. These two clowns espoused the Che Guevara school of electronics. Their modus operandi was to plug in anything on the fritz and hope that it exploded, because the sparks would pinpoint the problem. (They applied this principle to my roommate’s malfunctioning stereo and in thirty minutes transformed it into scrap metal.) That’s why the console in Studio A was so fascinating to them. It exploded with the persistence of a Mexican fiesta, which may have explained their predilection for working at it late at night with a case of cheap beer at hand.

During one of these late night escapades Minot was on his back under the console monkeying with some wires, while Auslander was standing up, hovering over the monster with his eyeglasses way down on the tip of his pimply nose, hoping to see the damn thing pop. I could see them through the window out of Studio B while I was on the air. I’m not sure exactly what happened next.  Whatever it was, the lights flickered momentarily and Minot screamed: “Fucking A” so loudly that even with my earphones on I could hear him. And he continued yelling the words over and over, while he hopped around holding his right hand. So, when Auslander, who now was totally cracking up over his buddy’s misfortune, pushed open the door to Studio B to share the merriment with me, those fateful words went out ever so clearly over the air, making my engineer blanch. And, as Minot continued to yell and Auslander continued to prop open the studio door with his doubled over body, those words continued to go out over the air, until the engineer came to his senses and flipped the switch.

Of course we never heard a word of complaint, proving that no one, not even the FCC, was listening. I don’t think Minot, after his pain subsided, ever used the words again. But Auslander did, all the time, and so did everybody else, me included. Soon it was all over campus. From there it conquered the nation. Tomorrow the world, as they say. Of course, nobody knew what “A” was, except for the few of us there that night. But it didn’t matter what “A” was. It really had nothing to do with any “A” in particular. The phrase lassoed the Zeitgeist; “A” really stood for everything so maddening and so frustrating that it couldn’t be put in words. What happened to Minot that day was just a happy accident, something like Newton and the apple. I mean, if he had yelled “Fucking B,” who would have noticed? Auslander probably would have given a little chuckle and that would have been it.        -Stephen Pribula ’61