The Great Plandemic Relief Grab-back

Written by an Ornery Observer of the American Fandango, from the dusty corner of a Nevada saloon, where the whiskey’s warm and the truth is optional.

Now, friends, sit back and gather ’round, for here’s a tale that may twist your whiskers and boil your grits.

It concerns a tribe of office-holders—attorneys general, governors, and other high-bred creatures of law—and their determined march on a mountain of missing money. The coin wasn’t buried by pirates nor stashed away by bank or stage robbers, but by none other than the U.S. Department of Education, or, under the Trumpian banner, “Ye Olde Vault of Vanishing Funds.”

T’other day, sixteen states—plus the District of Columbia, which can’t vote but sure can sue—filed suit in a Manhattan court, demanding that the Trump administration unhand their pandemic loot. Leading the legal posse was New York’s Letitia James, and flanking her like cavalry in a spaghetti western was Nevada’s own Attorney General, Mr. Aaron Ford.

Now Mr. Ford, a stout fellow with words hot enough to brand cattle, declared, “The cuts to these programs are unlawful, and they will have a devastating impact on Nevada’s children.”

He promised that every time Mr. Trump’s folk misbehaved, “my office will see him in court.” I tell you, if threats were horses, Ford’d be riding a saddle made of subpoenas.

The fuss began when schools were promised, during the dread days of COVID, a handsome pot of federal gold—$189 billion worth, if the scribes are correct—to heal their wounded halls, buy books, fix roofs, and maybe, if luck held, purchase a new swing set for the playground. The Biden administration told the states they had through March 2026 to spend the loot, giving them time to untangle bureaucratic knots, hire teachers, and procure enough hand sanitizer to flood the Carson River.

But lo! In a move slicker than a greased pig at the county fair, Trump’s Education Secretary—one Linda McMahon, better known in wrestling circles than academic ones—declared that schools had “ample time” to spend the cash and would now find themselves empty-handed unless they filed for special dispensation.

In Nevada, it left folks scratching their heads and counting their losses. At first, the state reckoned they’d be short $29 million, but after much cipherin’ and squinting at spreadsheets, Deputy Superintendent Megan Peterson said the figure now sat around $10 to $12 million. That’s still enough money to make a banker sweat and a schoolteacher weep.

As for the Trump folks, they offered no number on what funds remain, only that exceptions might be made, much like giving out pie crumbs after the banquet has ended. So now the courtroom curtains rise, and the great American drama plays on—equal parts comedy and tragedy, with a dash of farce. And somewhere in the wings, students wait, schools wait, and one can only hope that justice arrives before the last bell rings.