Poison Pills and Silver Spoons

Although I have never served in the Nevada Legislature, I have attended a few family reunions that felt quite like this session. At those reunions, some people left early, others stayed too long, and there was never any agreement on who brought the best potato salad.

It all started with Governor Joe Lombardo’s big health care proposal—his signature piece, the kind you polish and put on the mantle. It went in looking like a thoroughbred and came out looking like a burro with a limp. Democrats in the Senate revised the proposal until the “vintage wine” promised ended as grape Kool-Aid and vinegar.

Senator Robin Titus, a woman who’s been around enough to know the scent of political perfume covering legislative roadkill, said the bill “will harm.” And that’s when you know things have gone sideways–when your team has to vote against your own guy’s bill. That’s like dropping your birthday cake on the floor and blaming the candles.

By the time the last two hours of the session rolled around, you could practically smell the desperation–like popcorn burning in the microwave. Poison pill amendments were flying through the air, studies ordered like appetizers no one planned to pay for, and a sudden urge from both parties to look busy while doing very little.

“The Nevada way,” they called it. I’ve seen better planning at a church potluck where five Jell-O molds and a bottle of mustard were all that showed up.

One was “Cindy Lou’s Law,” meant to stop pet stores from selling cats and dogs. But instead of banning anything, it got stripped down and replaced with a study—probably the kind where nothing gets done, but everyone feels good about “raising awareness.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. The corps managed to pass charter school raises, housing reform, and even a voter ID bill, which I hear was an olive branch in a field usually plowed with rakes. But even those victories felt like someone patched a leaky roof with duct tape—good enough if the rain holds off.

By the end, Republicans were filibustering with the enthusiasm of a cat herder at a dog show, all because they got shorted on seats in the interim Legislative Commission. And frankly, I don’t blame them. That’s like being told to bring dessert and then not being given a chair at the table. You can’t argue fairness with folks who think winning is the same thing as being correct.

Political experts say it all boils down to term limits, which, in theory, sounds good but is more or less like rotating chefs every ten minutes in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. The only ones who know how to run things are the lobbyists and the janitors.

As one old cowboy once said, “You can’t fix a fence by talkin’ about it.”

Well, they talked. They amended. They studied. But when the session closed, Nevada got left with a stack of half-baked bills and a film tax credit that died faster than a cactus in a snowstorm.

If dysfunction were a rodeo, Carson City would’ve taken home the buckle.