Author: Tom Darby

If there’s one thing Nevada’s Attorney General Aaron Ford has mastered, it’s turning legal action into an art form—or at least a competitive sport.

Ford threw the legal gauntlet against then-President Donald Trump 33 times in his first two years. Thirty-three. That’s more battles than Nevada ghost towns, which is saying something.

While Trump was busy pitching border walls like they were limited-time offers on late-night infomercials, Ford was sharpening his lawyerly claws and making it his mission to clog federal courts with lawsuits with a higher word count than Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

Fast-forward to now, as Ford is gearing up for his next act: duking it out with a conservative Supreme Court while simultaneously moonlighting as a moral authority. He’s one of just two Democratic attorneys general working alongside Republican governors, which must make his office feel like Thanksgiving dinner where half the family insists on carving the turkey with a chainsaw.

But Ford is nothing if not bold. He’s willing to “collaborate” with Trump’s administration on issues like trafficking, though he’d probably still take the opportunity to staple a subpoena to Trump’s toupee for old time’s sake. “He has a penchant for violating the law,” Ford said of Trump, proving once again that the pot does love calling the kettle black.

Ford’s legal philosophy is simple: sue first, ask questions later.

Alongside his fellow Democratic attorneys general, he’s already gearing up for a potential Trump comeback as though the man were the political equivalent of Freddy Krueger—just with worse hair. The team’s current focus is on hot-button issues like abortion rights, immigration, and environmental regulations, so if Trump so much as jaywalks, you can bet Ford will have the paperwork ready before the ink dries on the sidewalk.

Take DACA, for example. Ford recently joined a motion to defend a Biden administration rule protecting Dreamers. Ford’s approach is straightforward: if you’re not dreaming Ford’s way, you’re probably getting a cease-and-desist letter in the mail.

In the end, Ford is less a defender of justice and more like that one neighbor who calls the HOA about your fence being an inch too high. Sure, he’s technically following the rules, but you can’t shake the feeling he’s just in it for the power trip.

Whether he’s suing Trump for his tweets, challenging the Supreme Court for existing, or crusading against policies that offend sensibilities, Ford is on a mission. And if that mission involves seeing his name in the headlines more often than the Nevada sun rises, that’s just a happy coincidence.

Having thrown my back out again, I was stuck in bed when my wife popped in with a snack—crackers with peanut butter and a classic mom move, “Don’t stay up too late!” she warned, pointing at me like the bedtime police.

I settled in, flicked on a movie about some giant, blood-sucking monster terrorizing a town, and immediately started regretting my life choices. My heart began racing faster than a caffeinated hamster when it started chomping on people.

Sensing my panic, my wife returned, shaking her head, turned off the TV, and tucked me in like I was five years old again. “No more scary stuff,” she said firmly before leaving the room.

A few hours later, I was deep in a dream about cookies–don’t judge–when I felt something biting my fingers. Not a nibble—actual biting.

My eyes snapped open, with my first thought being: the monster’s real.

I squeezed my eyes shut like that would somehow stop whatever was happening. But the biting didn’t stop. Instead, it started to feel a little slobbery.

Summoning all my courage, which isn’t much, I peeked under the bed. There, staring back at me with glowing, beady eyes, was a monster—but not the giant, terrifying kind.

Nope.

It was no bigger than a loaf of bread, with bat wings, pointy little fangs, and the most ridiculous overbite I’d ever seen. It was gnawing on my fingers like they were drumsticks at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“Uh … hi?” I said.

The little thing froze mid-bite and looked at me like I was the weird one in this situation. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a voice boomed:

“Hey! I told you no snacks before bedtime!”

The monster squeaked in terror, dropping my hand. It gave me one last guilty glance, then slunk back into the shadows under my bed, wings drooping like a kid caught breaking curfew.

I sat there, hand still slimy from the monster’s spit, wondering which was scarier: the fact a tiny vampire lives under my bed or the fact that it has a bedtime rule enforcer.

CARSON CITY – In a move both ambitious and ironic, Nevada lawmakers are pushing to teach students how to spot misinformation—while proving they might need a refresher course themselves.

Assemblymember Cecelia Gonzalez, championing the cause of news literacy, lamented that false information spreads like a Nevada brushfire, citing rumors of ICE raids that “aren’t actually happening.”

It would have been a good point—except for the small fact that ICE raids are happening, even in Reno. One might say the misinformation problem is closer to home than expected.

Gonzalez and fellow Assemblymember Erica Mosca are determined to work with the Nevada Department of Education to weave news literacy into the curriculum, though exactly how remains unclear. Will it be through legislation? Policy tweaks? Leaving teachers to figure it out in their spare time? The specifics are as hazy as a campaign promise.

This effort comes as Nevada grapples with its latest educational report card, which reveals that only 39% of Clark County School District students are proficient in English—just slightly ahead of a system where you hand them a book and hope for the best.

“In a time where misinformation rapidly spreads, this is something very critical to us,” Gonzalez stressed.

She was quick to assure that teachers—already overburdened—wouldn’t be tasked with yet another impossible job.

The News Literacy Project, a nonprofit with unshakable optimism, reports that only 20 percent of teens can correctly distinguish news from ads, opinions, and entertainment. There are some adults–mostly politicians–who struggle with that, as recent events suggest. Even more alarming, 80 percent of teens admit to seeing conspiracy theories on social media, and many actually believe them.

“News literacy is the ability to discern factual information from non-credible information,” explained Ebonee Otoo, a senior vice president at the News Literacy Project.

It’s a noble goal, assuming students can tear themselves away from viral cat videos long enough to learn it. Last year, the nonprofit armed nearly 600 Nevada educators with free news literacy resources, reaching 2,800 students—many of whom will no doubt put their skills to good use correcting their parents’ dubious Facebook posts.

If lawmakers succeed in making news literacy part of the curriculum, perhaps their next challenge will be even more pronounced: fact-checking themselves before making public statements.

Because Who Else Will Hand Out Free Money?

In a move that shocked absolutely no one, U.S. Senator Jacky Rosen of Nevada declared the sky to be falling after former President Donald Trump—spurred on by policy adviser Elon Musk—announced plans to shutter USAID. According to Rosen, this act of bureaucratic demolition will result in nothing short of national security collapse, global chaos, and, quite possibly, locusts raining from the heavens.

“Make no mistake,” Rosen warned ominously, “ceding America’s global leadership is a gift to Vladimir Putin and the Chinese Communist Party.”

Because we all know, the only thing keeping world peace intact was a well-funded Washington agency handing out taxpayer dollars overseas. Forget the military, forget diplomacy—USAID is the lone force standing between America and the abyss.

Rosen also took issue with the legality of the move, insisting Trump can’t just go around dismantling agencies willy-nilly. She must have missed the last decade of political history, where presidents on both sides have treated constitutional limits like optional fine print.

But worry not—Rosen is ready to “work with her colleagues” (translation: send strongly worded letters) to stop this dastardly plot and ensure that USAID lives on to distribute funds and fight pandemics from its air-conditioned offices.

Meanwhile, Musk, seemingly delighted to be the puppet master of government policy, continues making announcements like a billionaire town crier as Trump revels in his favorite pastime—knocking over the carefully stacked Jenga tower of Washington bureaucracy to watch folks like Rosen panic.

Legislators Try Not to Laugh

As the 2025 Legislative Session kicks off, Governor Joe Lombardo has issued a noble call for bipartisanship—a time-honored tradition in American politics, wherein one side politely asks the other to stop fighting just long enough to pass the bills they like.

The 83rd session of the Nevada Legislature began on Feb. 3. It will last 120 days, during which lawmakers will argue, posture, make grand declarations about “the will of the people,” and, with any luck, actually govern. The Democrats have maintained their majority in both chambers but fell just short of the coveted “supermajority,” which would have allowed them to veto-proof their legislation and render Lombardo’s pen a mere decorative object.

Ever the optimist, Lombardo issued a statement urging legislators to abandon their partisan squabbling and focus on what unites us, a phrase that has had as much influence in politics as a librarian shushing a tornado.

“As the 2025 Legislative Session begins today, I’m hopeful that legislators will join me in setting aside partisan rhetoric,” Lombardo said, presumably while Democratic lawmakers chuckled under their breath. “Finding sensible solutions requires leadership, partnership, and bipartisanship.”

Indeed, the Governor has laid out a noble list of priorities, including lowering housing costs, expanding healthcare access, maximizing education investments, enforcing accountability, strengthening public safety, and building a stronger economy. It is a fine vision—that would be inspiring if not for the inconvenience of requiring Democrats and Republicans to work together without turning every minor disagreement into a dramatic showdown worthy of a courtroom drama.

As the session unfolds, Nevadans can look forward to plenty of spirited debates, a handful of actual compromises, and the annual spectacle of lawmakers congratulating themselves for doing what they were elected to do. Stay tuned.

Shocking Tale of Modern Inconvenience

Friends, neighbors, and sufferers of unexpected darkness gather close (if you can still read this by candlelight) for a tale of woe, wretchedness, and Wi-Fi withdrawal. More than 2,860 Lyon County residents have found themselves thrust back into the bygone days of yore—by which I mean the inconvenient era before Netflix.

The great calamity struck shortly after 11 a.m. on Monday when the first power outage hit unsuspecting residents in the 89043 and 89408 zip codes. Then, as if insult needed company, two more outages followed just after noon.

The cause of two of these blackouts remains a mystery, like the continued existence of reality television. NV Energy has determined that the culprits are downed poles or power lines.

Naturally, NV Energy’s best and brightest are working diligently to restore power, though they have remained coy about when that might happen. As of now, the official timeline for restoration ranges from “soon” to “someday” to “perhaps you should invest in a good book and a sturdy lantern.”

Rest assured, we will continue monitoring the situation, updating you as new information emerges—assuming, of course, that our power stays on long enough to do so. In the meantime, we advise residents to reflect upon simpler times when people entertained themselves by staring at walls and holding awkward conversations with family members.

Literary Indecency and Moral Outrage

Gather for the latest installment of “As the Pages Turn,” featuring an intrepid band of Lyon County residents scandalized by learning that books—those sneaky little devils—contain words. Some of these words–if arranged in an unfortunate sequence, might hint at things the average adult blushes to acknowledge, but which nature has already gone and made known to every barnyard critter in the county.

The trouble began when a concerned faction of citizens stormed the local library board, brandishing passages from books they declared unfit for the delicate eyes of young readers. According to Library Director Wynne Prindle, the initial group of about “seven or eight” rolled in, aghast that the library had failed to function as a moral monastery and was instead offering books—some of which, horror of horrors, contained passages that made people uncomfortable.

Upon encountering these literary horrors, Library Board President Deanne Davis confessed she had no idea such material existed in print. A fascinating revelation from a library official suggesting either a lifetime of very selective reading or a willful ignorance of certain sections of the bookstore. Regardless, Davis quickly determined that publishers had “taken out all the stops” in their race to corrupt the youth of Lyon County.

Predictably, there was a counterattack from those who still believe libraries should contain books and that readers should have some say in whether they read them. Librarians, who until now thought their job was helping folks find biographies of Abraham Lincoln and making sure the summer reading program didn’t devolve into chaos, suddenly found themselves branded as enablers of society’s moral decline.

“We take pride in what we do,” said Prindle, likely wondering at what point her career turned from community service into a high-stakes game of cultural dodgeball.

For those who believe in Democracy, the library provides a “Reconsideration of Materials” form, a charming bureaucratic device through which one can request the removal of a book without the need for pitchforks or torches. While six forms have been submitted, nary a book has been burned.

Silver City resident Erich Obermayer cut to the heart of the matter, suggesting this wasn’t about children or books but about power—one group’s determination to decide what everyone else can read. It is a comment that overlooked the most obvious question–can a non-adult get their hands and teeth on the edges of the jacket covers?

But fear not! The drama continues at the next Lyon County Commission meeting, where our valiant public officials will appoint a new trustee, thereby ensuring that the battle for the soul of the library rages on for another episode. Stay tuned—this one has all the makings of a real page-turner.

CARSON CITY, Nev. — In a stunning display of small-town pride, mild exasperation, and the ever-present need to remind the public that roads don’t pave themselves, five of Nevada’s county leaders assembled at Casino Fandango on Thursday to discuss the state of their domains. It was an event hosted by the Northern Nevada Development Authority, sponsored by local businesses, and attended by people who care about county governance or lost a bet and had to show up.

Lt. Gov. Anthony Stavros made a surprise appearance to remind everyone that county commissioners are the backbone of Nevada—though one suspects they already believed that themselves. He waxed nostalgic about his time on the Las Vegas City Council, perhaps to emphasize that while Vegas has its brand of chaos, rural counties have found their special flavor of governmental headaches, too.

Storey County: Where Industrial Parks Save Lives and You Can Borrow a Cup of Sugar Through Your Neighbor’s Window

Storey County Manager Austin Osborne wasted no time explaining that without the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center (TRIC), the county would be little more than sagebrush and regret. With Tesla’s tax revenue rolling in at $15 million, Osborne painted a picture of a county that had just stumbled upon a silver mine but couldn’t afford new boots.

The budget, he explained, is a precarious $30 million, but that’s not enough to replace a $25 million jail, fix $20 million worth of roads, and ensure that residents have water that isn’t left over from the last century. However, Storey County is striding in affordability—by deregulating everything in sight.

“We allow tiny houses. We allow small houses. We allow zero setbacks,” Osborne said proudly. “In some cities, you can look through the windows and see your neighbors. In our county, you can climb through the window and shake hands.”

Douglas County: The ‘Just-Regulated-Enough’ Approach

Douglas County Manager Jenifer Davidson made it clear that while Douglas County is modernizing, it is not, in fact, Storey County.

“We’re not deregulating to the extent that Austin is. We do have minor setbacks. We’re not climbing through windows here,” she assured the audience, to laughter and perhaps mild disappointment.

Instead, Douglas County is focusing on updating its development code, streamlining its bureaucratic labyrinth, and finding $6 million yearly to prevent its roads from crumbling into historical artifacts. The county, like much of the nation, is also suffering from a crisis of confidence in government, which Davidson described as the “paradox of government”—a phrase that sounds both profound and like something you’d hear just before someone raises your taxes.

Lyon County: Libraries, Lawmen, and Lots of Land

Lyon County Manager Andrew Haskin took a moment to highlight the county’s vast expanse and the plucky determination of its public servants. For example, the Lyon County Library System has five branches and a staff smaller than most fast-food restaurants, yet it somehow served 200,000 visitors last year.

Meanwhile, the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office has 84 deputies patrolling an area roughly the size of Rhode Island. They’ve managed to reduce emergency response times in Fernley and Silver Springs by 76 percent—either by increasing efficiency or subtly redefining what constitutes an “emergency.”

Carson City: The Open Book with an Expensive Safety Net

Carson City Manager Nancy Paulson reminded attendees that keeping the capital city safe costs an eye-watering $58 million out of the city’s $92 million general fund. Fire, police, and courts ain’t cheap, but transparency is free—or at least, Carson City offers it at a discount.

“Carson City is literally an open book,” Paulson declared before explaining that citizens can view every financial transaction in real-time, which is either a triumph of governmental honesty or an open invitation for armchair auditors to start sweating over office supply expenditures.

She also mentioned upcoming projects, including 210 new apartments downtown and a $15 million federal grant to spruce up Mills Park, which she called “Carson’s Central Park”—a bold statement, considering Central Park has a zoo, and Carson City has…optimism.

Mineral County: Where Hope Gets Measured in Rodeos and Rainbows

Mineral County’s Kyle Isom radiated enthusiasm for the small but scrappy community of Hawthorne, which recently held its first rodeo in 30 years. If that wasn’t enough excitement, the town also secured a grant to transform an old dirt lot into what Isom poetically described as a “community living room”—which is either an endearing vision of civic togetherness or a sign that people are getting a little too comfortable outside.

To wrap up his presentation, Isom shared a photo of a rainbow, which he claimed encapsulated the spirit of Mineral County.

“It’s freedom,” he declared. “It’s hundreds of miles of OHV trails. It’s barefoot skiing on the lake, launching a boat…”

And with that, the event concluded, leaving attendees to reflect on the trials, triumphs, and general absurdity of county governance—where the problems are many, the solutions are complicated, and sometimes, all you can do is point to a rainbow and hope for the best.

He’s in No Condition to Disagree

CHURCHILL COUNTY, Nev. — The Nevada State Police, in a remarkable feat of detective work, have successfully identified the name of a man who met his unfortunate and untimely end on Jan. 25 along Interstate 80.

The victim, 26-year-old Rahul Nogivenname of Sacramento, Calif., perished in a spectacularly unfortunate collision, which has since become the subject of an ongoing investigation and, no doubt, several insurance company headaches. Authorities assure the public they have verified the last name and can confirm that it is indeed his actual name—though one assumes he is in no condition to argue.

The incident, which unfolded at the thoroughly unreasonable hour of 2:56 a.m., involved two large commercial trucks and a tragic amount of rotten timing. A 2019 International truck managed to overturn itself, leaving its trailer sprawled across both westbound lanes like an oversized speed bump.

As fate, poor visibility, or the general misfortunes of highway travel would have it, a 2019 Kenworth truck plowed directly into the overturned trailer, resulting in the demise of its driver. The driver of the Kenny sustained only minor injuries, proving once again that life is neither fair nor predictable.

Washoe City was no stranger to violence, but the cold-blooded shotgun killing of the stage driver and guard was something else entirely. The town was stirred to its core when Noah Hale, a rough-edged but respected ranch hand, was accused of the crime.

With little more than circumstantial evidence and whispers of his temper, Hale was convicted, sentenced to hang, and left to rot in the jailhouse as the gallows rose plank by plank in the town square. In the condemning crowd, one stood out in quiet curiosity—Lucinda “Lucy” Merritt.

Lucy had grown up in Washoe City, only to leave for Carson City as a young woman, determined to find a life beyond the dust and brawls of her childhood. But after her father passed, she returned, taking up residence in her family home.

Though sharp-witted, Lucy knew better than to press too hard, especially when questioning men. Instead, she played her part as a demure and unassuming woman, choosing her words carefully and feigning naivety when needed.

The morning after the conviction, Lucy wandered down the street. Gathered on the boardwalk sat a cluster of men.

“Ain’t right to let him sit there much longer,” drawled Jed Morrow, a wiry rancher with a crooked hat. “Man’s guilty as sin.”

Lucy tilted her head and offered a small, hesitant smile. “Oh, Mr. Morrow, you’re probably right, but… I was just wondering… how do we know for sure? I mean, I’m not too clever about these things, but wasn’t it done with a shotgun?”

Jed scowled. “Proof enough. He was seen near the stage that mornin’, and everyone knows he’s got a grudge against Otis Cromwell. That’s reason enough for me.”

Lucy clasped her hands and looked down, embarrassed. “Oh, I suppose that makes sense. It’s just… well, doesn’t Mr. Hale use pistols? I thought only a few folks around here had shotguns.”

Sam Tolliver, the grizzled blacksmith sitting with his back against the wall, nodded. “That’s right.”

Lucy glanced up at him with wide eyes. “Really? Oh, Mr. Tolliver, you’d know. How many shotguns are there in town? Six, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded again. “Six.”

“Oh dear,” Lucy said softly as if the thought had only now occurred to her. “So… if Mr. Hale doesn’t own one, where could he have gotten it? And where is it now?”

The men fell silent as Lucy’s innocent-sounding question hung in the air. Sheriff Ben Calhoun, sitting quietly nearby, leaned forward.

“You treadin’ dangerous ground, Miss Merritt,” he said gruffly. “We’ve got a man set to hang, and I don’t take kindly to folks stirrin’ up trouble.”

Lucy’s cheeks turned pink, and she looked down quickly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t mean to stir trouble. I just… I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything.”

The conversation shifted after that, but Lucy’s soft-spoken words lingered in the minds of the men around her.

Meanwhile, Noah Hale sat in his cell, listening to the sounds of hammering and sawing as the gallows took shape outside. He’d long since given up shouting his innocence—it had done no good during the trial.

When Lucy appeared at his cell door, guitar in hand, he couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly. “What’s this?”

Lucy smiled shyly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I just thought… well, it’s noisy, and I thought maybe this would help.”

Noah took the guitar with a raised eyebrow. “Much obliged,” he said, strumming it once before frowning. “This thing’s got a rattle to it.”

“Oh dear,” Lucy said, her brow furrowing. “I… I hope it’s still playable. I must have jostled it on the way over.”

Noah gave her a long look but said nothing. He began to pick out a tune, the sound carrying faintly over the construction noise. Lucy lingered for a moment before disappearing into the front office.

As Lucy left the Sheriff’s Office, Abigail Harper, a widowed seamstress, was bringing a cake into the jail. Sheriff Calhoun intercepted her at the door, his face red with anger.

“Abigail,” he barked, “you think I don’t know about the four files you bought from the mercantile last week?”

Abigail’s face turned scarlet. “Files? Sheriff, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play coy with me,” he snapped. “You’re trying to help Hale escape. I ought to search you right here and now.”

Instead, he stuck his hand into the cake and removed the two files baked into the destroyed cake, holding them up.

Lucy stepped forward, her voice soft and soothing. “Oh, Sheriff, please. I’m sure Mrs. Harper didn’t mean any harm. It was probably just… oh, I don’t know… a misunderstanding?”

Calhoun glared at her but backed down, muttering as he returned to his desk. Abigail shot Lucy a grateful look before hurrying away.

Lucy’s gentle persistence led her to Otis Cromwell. She visited him at the bank, her demeanor sweet and unassuming.

“Mr. Cromwell,” she began hesitantly, “I… I was just wondering about something. I know it’s silly, but… the money that was stolen… it was yours, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he smiled.

“But…well…I thought if you were to send money, gold, or whatever by stage, it isn’t yours anymore but becomes property of the stage line, so they can insure it against… say theft.” she said.

Otis frowned. “What’s your point, Miss Merritt?”

“Oh, no point!” she said quickly, her hands fluttering nervously. “I just… well, I thought that was odd. I… I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. Please forgive me.”

Otis flustered, but Lucy’s wide-eyed innocence disarmed him. She left before he could respond.

That night, chaos erupted. Noah Hale escaped from his cell. The bars of the window filed clean through. The guitar lay abandoned on the floor, its secret now clear.

By morning, Lucy was gone too. The townsfolk buzzed with rumors—had she run off with the outlaw? Sheriff Calhoun refused to answer.

Abigail Harper smiled when Jed Morrow came to her door to pick up a shirt and tell her the news.

When the gathered crowd of hundreds demanded justice, the town obliged. Otis Cromwell was dragged to the gallows, protesting his innocence until the noose tightened around his neck.