The desert air crackled with raw defiance as Nevada Governor Joe Lombardo let loose a verbal Molotov cocktail at a private Lincoln Day Dinner. Caught on tape by the sneering jackals at Meidas Touch—those self-righteous left-wing vultures who’d sell their grandmother for a viral hit—Lombardo didn’t mince words.
“All the individuals on social media, they’re talking bad about all of us, in particular me,” he growled, pausing for effect. “And my message to them is, ‘F*** you.’”
The leaked audio, a trio of jagged-edged rants, didn’t stop there. Lombardo turned his sights on the “Hands Off” protests that swarmed Carson City like locusts, a howling mob raging against the Trump machine.
“Paid by the Democratic Party,” he sneered, dismissing the thousands who clogged the streets as hired guns, not patriots. “That momentum, those crowd sizes—it ain’t because they’re pissed. It’s because they’re getting paid.”
And then the kicker, a jab at the Dems’ core. “Their strategy is [to] stay at home, hands out, waiting for Uncle Sam to drop a welfare check.” It hits like a sledgehammer—crude, unapologetic, and dead-on.
Lombardo’s camp, cornered by a sycophant press corps, offered a curt “no comment,” the political equivalent of a middle finger. Good for them.
They’re brawler, not a groveler, and not about to let some pinko website dictate the tone. It is Nevada, after all—a land of hardscrabble ranchers and casino kings, not limp-wristed coastal elites clutching their weenies.
Meanwhile, down in Mesquite, City Manager Edward “Owen” Dickie stepped into a different kind of buzzsaw, one of his own making. Another leaked recording–a private chat with ex-Police Chief Maquade Chesley has the locals baying for blood.
Dickie, who axed Chesley back in January for insubordination—think threats and cop-shop chaos—got caught musing about replacing him with “the biggest Black Aunt Jemima” from Louisiana’s back parishes to “whip you guys into shape.”
The words landed like a live grenade in a woke minefield, and now Dickie’s scrambling to explain himself.
“This was retaliation,” he insisted, pointing the finger at Chesley, the disgruntled ex-chief he sent packing. “It was just between him and I.”
Dickie’s backpedaling is a sight to behold. “What I meant was, maybe I’d go down south and get a strong Black woman to straighten these boys out,” he clarified–like it softened the blow. “I can’t believe I said ‘Aunt Jemima type.’ I’d never say that in public.”
Too late, pal—the tape’s out, and the Nevada media’s smelling blood.
Dickie fessed up to HR, bracing for a reprimand from the city council. “The gist was, maybe the department needs diversity,” he muttered.
He’s a man who forgot the cardinal rule–In a world of hidden mics and vengeful ghosts, you either own your words, or they own you. The Democrats taught us that much—never apologize, never retreat.
Dickie’s learning the hard way while Lombardo’s up in Carson City laughing at the chaos. Two men, two tapes, one lesson–In 2025’s Nevada, the truth still cuts better than the lies—but don’t expect it to be pretty.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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