The Old Blog in the Desert

You ever sit at a bar and listen to a guy ramble on about how he’s got it all figured out? That’s what this feels like.

A declaration of beliefs wrapped in the idea that if you don’t agree, you must be either stupid or evil. So let’s take a stool, light a cigarette, and dismantle this sermon like a bad hangover.

“I believe a country should take care of its weakest members.”

Great. But who gets to decide who’s “weak”? And what happens when everyone suddenly becomes “weak” because the system rewards dependence? Charity is noble. Forced charity is theft.

“Healthcare is a right, not a privilege.”

Rights don’t require someone else’s labor. You have a right to speak, but not a right to make me listen. You want doctors working for you at gunpoint? That’s not a right—that’s a hostage situation.

“Education should be affordable.”

Maybe if universities weren’t bloated cash cows stuffed with useless degrees and tenured leeches, tuition wouldn’t be a lifetime mortgage. You want free education? Ask why it costs so damn much in the first place.

“I don’t believe in taking your money and giving it to people who don’t want to work.”

And yet, here we are. “Fair wages” are just a way of saying “let’s let someone else handle the problem.”

“I’m fine with paying my share.”

That’s cute. You and how many others? Because last I checked, the government wasn’t exactly known for using tax money wisely. You’re okay with it going anywhere but “lining corporate pockets”? Have you met the military-industrial complex? The bureaucratic black hole? Your money doesn’t fix things. It just disappears.

“Companies should pay a livable wage.”

Great. So when the price of everything shoots up to match that “livable wage,” are you still going to be cheering? Or will you demand another raise because your “fair wage” doesn’t go as far anymore? That’s the problem with economic justice—math doesn’t care about your feelings.

“I am not anti-Christian.”

And yet, somehow, the only religion that needs to stay out of politics is Christianity. You’re not mad at faith. You’re mad that it’s not your faith being legislated. And before you bring up Sharia Law—let me tell you, this country’s got enough red tape to make that impossible.

“I don’t believe LGBT people should have more rights than you.”

No one does. But when “equal rights” turn into forced participation, speech policing, and lawsuits over wedding cakes, it’s not equality anymore—it’s special treatment.

“I don’t believe illegal immigrants should have the world at their feet.”

Nice pivot, but when you start ranting about “humane ways” to handle it, you’re just sugarcoating open borders. You want to be compassionate? That’s fine, but don’t act shocked when a system built on law collapses when laws don’t mean anything.

“I don’t believe the government should regulate everything.”

And yet, you do. You don’t trust corporations, but you trust politicians to keep them in check? You don’t want bureaucrats in your personal life, but you’re fine with them in boardrooms? The government doesn’t solve problems. It is the problem.

“I believe our current administration is fascist.”

Ah, there it is. The big bad “F” word. It used to mean something. Now it just means “people I don’t like.” Fascism is government control over industry. You demand that the government control industry so congratulations, you played yourself.

“I believe systemic racism and misogyny are worse than people think.”

Says who? Legacy media? College professors? The same people who profit off convincing you that the world is against you? If everything is oppression, then nothing is.

“I am not coming for your guns.”

Sure, but you want “common sense” regulations. You know what’s common sense? The Second Amendment. Because when someone knocks on your door in the middle of the night, you don’t have time to call your senator.

“I believe in political correctness—aka social politeness.”

No, you believe in social control. Politeness is voluntary. Your version has HR memos and social consequences for stepping out of line. That’s not politeness. That’s a leash.

“I believe in sustainable energy.”

Cool, build a wind turbine in your backyard, and let me know how it works out. But don’t act surprised when the billionaire oil guys pivot to becoming billionaire solar guys and nothing changes.

“Abortion is a right and women’s healthcare.”

Not to be an asshole or anything, but aren’t you glad your mom didn’t hold the same opinion as you?

“I believe women should be equal.”

No argument here. But here’s a thought—maybe stop framing everything like women are helpless victims in a world run by mustache-twirling men. Want equality? Stop demanding special rules.

Now, take a breath. Finish your drink. You believe a lot of things. Good for you. But believing something doesn’t make it true, and ranting about it doesn’t make it reality. The world doesn’t run on slogans. It runs on power. And the people with power don’t give a damn what you believe.

The Nevada State Police is at it again, teaming up with the Joining Forces coalition to yank impaired drivers off the road. Sounds noble enough, but you start peeling back the layers, and it reeks of a well-funded sting operation. They throw money at other agencies, like a drunk at a slot machine, hoping for a jackpot that never comes.

Six percent–that’s what roadway deaths have climbed this year, even with all the extra hands on deck. More checkpoints, patrols, and taxpayer cash funneled into a program with results so thin you could roll a cigarette with them. But they keep it going anyway, this time rolling on through February 23, because once a machine starts eating money, it won’t just stop.

Officials say impairment is one of the biggest killers on the road. Ain’t no argument there. But their big plan? More “awareness,” more “education.”

Like another press release, billboard, or public service announcement will keep some washed-up drunk from slamming his truck into another person on the way home from the bar. Meanwhile, the coffers swell, the tickets pile up, and the numbers keep climbing.

Well, I must’ve stirred up quite the hornet’s nest at breakfast this morning. There I was, buttering my toast with all the innocence of a newborn lamb–when I saw my dear wife eyeing me through the tines of her fork.

Naturally, being a man of curiosity—and perhaps a touch of foolishness—I asked her what she was doing. She didn’t miss a beat. “I’m reminding myself,” she said, calm as you please, “what prison might look like.”

A lesser man might’ve dropped his coffee right then and there, but I sipped mine a little slower and made a mental note to sleep with one eye open for the foreseeable future.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — There is a certain beauty in destruction, poetry in letting the whole rotten machine sputter, lurch, and collapse under the weight of its hypocrisy. And if Senator Andy Kim and his Democratic cronies have the spine they claim, they might do the one thing that could make America great again: shut the government down.

It’s almost too perfect. The Democrats, self-styled guardians of bureaucracy, suddenly rediscover the power of sabotage—wielding it like a drunk swinging a lead pipe in a bar fight. Kim is openly toying with the idea of refusing Republican demands to keep the government funded, citing Trump’s apocalyptic gutting of federal agencies as the excuse. USAID, the Department of Education—useless appendages, according to the administration, and if they go under, so be it.

And maybe that’s the angle here. Let them crash it. Let the whole thing fold like a cheap card table in a hurricane. Kim whines about “dismantling the government,” but that’s the point. The bloated corpse of a system has been groaning under its weight for decades, held together by red tape, fear-mongering, and the trembling hands of bureaucrats too cowardly to let go of the illusion.

If the Democrats followed through—if they let the funding dry up and the wheels seize—they’d be doing the work of their supposed enemies. Trump and Musk, those two madmen bent on reshaping America into their images, wouldn’t even need to lift a finger. The government would crumble under its contradictions, a beast too sick to keep dragging itself forward.

And yet, there’s a pitiful inevitability to all of this. The Democrats will hem and haw, threatening to hold the government hostage, only to cave at the last minute like they always do. The Republicans will bungle their way into some Frankenstein’s monster of a budget, filled with half-measures and bloated nonsense, ensuring that nothing ever truly changes.

But if they don’t—if they finally embrace the chaos, if they finally say “fuck it” and let the ship sink—then maybe, just maybe, America might finally get the bloodletting it so desperately needs.

How Nevada Lawmakers Sold Out to Clean Energy

The corporate grift continues.

More than a decade ago, the Nevada Legislature—under the iron-fisted whisperings of the late Sen. Harry Reid—set in motion a grand performance: the slow, painful execution of coal-fired power in the Silver State. At the center of this charade is NV Energy, the state’s monopolistic energy baron, pledging its allegiance to green energy while lining its pockets with every pivot and delay.

Here we are, 2025, and the supposed final blow to coal was to fall at the North Valmy Generating Station. But don’t break out the champagne just yet—this isn’t the end of anything. It’s just another slick shell game by the power brokers who run Nevada’s energy racket.

Instead of shutting it down, NV Energy is simply repowering Valmy with natural gas. After all, why kill the cash cow when you can slap a different saddle on it? The new plan, rubber-stamped by the lapdog state energy regulators, will allegedly cut emissions by half.

It’s a nice-sounding round number. But wait—months after getting approval to convert Valmy to gas, NV Energy doubled down, sneakily unveiling a plan for two more natural gas peaking units, adding another 411 megawatts of fossil-fueled juice to the grid. Something they conveniently forgot to mention the first time around. Oops.

Critics, including so-called clean energy watchdogs, have cried foul, accusing NV Energy of a bait-and-switch. But let’s not pretend to be surprised.

The Nevada Legislature, along with the state’s regulatory agencies, have long been in the back pocket of NV Energy, a monopoly so deeply entrenched it might as well be inscribed in the state Constitution. The politicians, ever the dutiful servants of corporate interests, passed AB524, which streamlines the very same underhanded process NV Energy is exploiting—allowing them to submit endless plan amendments with little scrutiny. They know the game, and they play it well.

The whole dance around Valmy is just a distraction. The play is the Carlin Trend—a 40-mile-long gold-laden corridor that feeds America’s insatiable appetite for shiny metals. The mines need power–and a bunch of it.

And NV Energy is more than happy to oblige, ensuring that a steady stream of fossil-fueled electrons flows through Northern Nevada. Green energy? Be serious. The utility’s not in the business of cleaning up the grid; it’s busy ensuring its survival, ensuring that ratepayers are on the hook for every new turbine, transmission line, and executive bonus.

This would have been easier to stomach if NV Energy didn’t peddle its con under the false banner of clean energy progress. They tout their renewable portfolio standards like a badge of honor, pointing to their 37 percent clean energy supply while conveniently glossing over that their carbon emissions projections are worsening.

The state, despite its lofty carbon reduction goals, is failing spectacularly, missing its 2025 targets by four percentage points and hurtling towards a 20-percentage-point shortfall by 2030. But don’t worry—there are no consequences for failure. The RPS has penalties; the carbon reduction goals have nothing but empty rhetoric.

So where does that leave us? Ratepayers get fleeced, NV Energy tightens its grip, and the politicians keep cashing checks.

The grand illusion of green energy transition continues while Nevada doubles down on gas plants for reliability and “grid stability.” And yet, when another amendment comes, when NV Energy quietly asks for another billion-dollar investment in fossil fuel infrastructure, the same chorus will sing: It’s necessary. It’s responsible. It’s the only way.

And so the scam rolls on.

Bureaucracy Conspires to Scramble Our Breakfasts

The esteemed legislators of Nevada, in their infinite wisdom and boundless efficiency, will convene on Monday to tackle the most pressing crisis of our times: the unconscionable price of eggs. Assembly Bill 171, a gallant effort to rein in the misdeeds of the villainous H5N1 bird flu virus, proposes granting the State Quarantine Officer the power to suspend Nevada’s cage-free egg law and thereby flood the state with an emergency supply of good old-fashioned, unencumbered eggs.

For those unfamiliar with the culprit of this fowl crisis, the H5N1 virus is a most inconsiderate guest. It has rudely infiltrated Nevada’s poultry supply, turning what was once the humble, affordable egg into a luxury item fit only for the aristocracy.

In some places, the price of a dozen has soared higher than a goose fleeing a tax collector. The result? Desperate housewives are rationing omelets, bakers are on the verge of rebellion, and many diners in Nevada are offering toast instead of their beloved scrambled eggs.

To address the culinary catastrophe, the Assembly Committee on Natural Resources will hear passionate arguments deciding the fate of the Nevada breakfast table at 4 p.m., February 10, in the venerated Legislative Building.

The Retail Association of Nevada has thrown considerable weight behind the bill, insisting that immediate action is needed to keep the working man’s protein within reach.

“Eggs are essential,” proclaimed Bryan Wachter, Senior Vice President of the association. “Governor Lombardo and legislative leaders understand the urgency of this crisis, and we demand swift action.”

Meanwhile, the Nevada Department of Agriculture and the ever-watchful U.S. Department of Agriculture have mobilized their forces to prevent further poultry pandemonium. In Nye and Churchill counties, dairy cattle premises are under quarantine, with officials peering through microscopes to determine what brand of avian mischief is at play. Ever the opportunist, the virus has taken up residence in wild birds across North America, proving again that no good deed goes unpunished—especially with Mother Nature.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, always eager to remind us that life is perilous, have warned that while H5N1 prefers to harass birds, it occasionally sets its sights on humans, leading to flu symptoms that range from mildly unpleasant to deeply regrettable. Fortunately, those with quick reflexes and access to antiviral medication may yet live to see another overpriced brunch.

For now, Nevada’s egg enthusiasts must await their fate. Will the mighty Assembly Bill 171 break the yolk of tyranny? Or shall we all resign to an eggless existence, forced to suffer through insipid bowls of oatmeal and unbuttered toast?

Only time—and the great machinery of government—will tell.

Another Thursday morning in the Great Basin, where the coffee is weak, the eggs are powder, and the bureaucrats have gathered again to solve society ills before lunch. The Healthy Communities Coalition of Lyon and Storey Counties—a name so sanitized it could double as a government hand soap—will be holding its bimonthly breakfast meeting this February 13 at the Silver Springs Community Center, where well-intentioned professionals will descend with PowerPoint slides and the eternal optimism that a pamphlet and some peer support can mend the cracks in the crumbling social infrastructure of the counties.

The guest lineup is a real barn burner. Jack Minshew from Nevada Care Connection will be there, giving a rousing rundown of the fine-print jungle that is Medicare, Medicare Assistance, Senior Medicare Patrol, and something called the Medicare Improvements for Patients and Providers Act.

It is a mouthful that likely translates to good luck getting the help you need, but here’s a brochure. Minshew will take questions afterward, presumably from the three people in the room awake enough to raise their hands.

Then there’s Shanon Lepe from Roseman University’s EMPOWERED program, which aims to help pregnant and postpartum individuals who use or have used opioids or stimulants for any reason—a phrase so broad it could apply to half the county. It’s all about recovery, peer support, and tackling the “social determinants of health”—a fancy way of saying that addiction is only half the problem when you’re broke, exhausted, and trapped in a system that moves at the speed of molasses.

The Coalition’s mission? Lofty.

Healthcare access, nutritious food, workforce development, substance use prevention. Noble goals, but hard to accomplish over lukewarm pancakes and a stack of government reports. The real question is: Will anything come of it, or is this another exercise in feel-good policymaking over a continental breakfast?

For more information—or if you enjoy watching a roomful of professionals try to tame a wildfire with a water pistol—visit www.healthcomm.org.

And Storey County’s Lonely Drop

The numbers are in, and they’re ugly—billions of gallons of water disappearing into the gaping maw of America’s ever-expanding digital infrastructure. Google’s data centers are the new industrial monsters, sucking rivers dry to keep their overheated machines from melting into silicon sludge.

The worst offenders? Council Bluffs, Iowa—980 million gallons in a single year. Mayes County, Oklahoma—815 million. Berkeley County, South Carolina—763 million. A nationwide competition in liquid gluttony.

And yet, amid this aquatic massacre, one lonely number stands out like a mirage in the desert. Storey County, Nevada—0.2 million gallons.

A rounding error. A drop in the digital ocean.

Why? Because Nevada and the high desert of Storey County know about scarcity. The land is dry, the people are used to making do, and water is worth more than gold.

Unlike its hydra-headed counterparts in the Midwest and Deep South, Storey County’s data centers aren’t trying to turn the place into a steam room. The numbers don’t lie—while Google’s empire burned through nearly six billion gallons nationwide, Storey County barely wet its lips.

What does this mean? Either Nevada has cracked the code on sustainable data cooling, or the desert is too unforgiving for the usual water-wasting antics. Either way, while the rest of the country drowns its way into the future, Storey County is a reminder that less is more.

The 700 miles of mining tunnels beneath Virginia City had a pulse, a heartbeat as ancient as the earth. Above, the frantic rush of tourists snapped selfies and shuffled between saloons.

Below, the tunnels lived and breathed with their rhythm. Rats skittered, water dripped, and the faint groan of distant pipes whispered through the damp air. But tonight, there was something more—ancient and foul, moving like smoke through the shadows.

Jim Delaney wasn’t supposed to be down here. Not really. The city had contractors for this kind of thing. But when his kid sister called, in hysterics, he didn’t ask questions.

“Jim, they took Kenny!” she’d screamed. “They dragged him into the tunnels!”

Kenny was nine. Sweet kid. The kind who still collected baseball cards and thought chocolate milk was a food group. Whatever they were, Kenny didn’t deserve it.

Jim’s flashlight flickered as he picked his way through the damp corridor. He cursed under his breath. The beam barely cut through the murky dark, the shadows too thick and alive to be pushed back.

In one hand, he clutched an old baseball bat—a relic from his Little League days. Now, he wished he’d grabbed a shotgun instead.

The air smelled thick, cloying mix of sulfur, wet stone, and something metallic—like old pennies. Ahead, the tunnel opened into a cavernous junction.

The walls glistened with algae, and strange symbols scrawled in red lined the stone. They weren’t graffiti. Jim knew that much. The symbols seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking, the lines too deliberate, too alive.

“Kenny!” he called, his voice ricocheting off the curved walls.

Only silence answered. No. Not silence. The faint skitter of footsteps.

Miles deep into the labyrinth, twenty figures knelt in a circle, faces hidden behind grotesque masks made of rat skulls and stitched leather. Robes clung to their bodies, soaked to the knee in sewage.

At the center of the circle, Kenny writhed against the ropes, binding his wrists and ankles, his cries drowned by the low, guttural chant of the robed figures. The leader stepped forward, raising a jagged blade glinting in the faint light. His voice rumbled like ground stone.

“Aleroth, hear us! We call you forth from the abyss. Take this offering and grant us your power!”

The symbols on the walls pulsed, oozing a sickly crimson glow. The air turned frigid, and shadows stretched unnaturally, crawling up the walls like living things.

Something began to emerge from the darkness. First, claws—long, black, and sharp as obsidian. Then, curling horns, jagged and cruel.

Its eyes burned like molten gold, twin orbs that seemed to see everything. The cultists gasped, some weeping with joy, others trembling in terror.

The demon spoke, voice a rumble that made the ground tremble. “Who dares summon me?”

Jim heard it before he saw it, a low, bone-deep growl followed by a flash of crimson light painting the tunnel in nightmarish hues. He stumbled, nearly dropping the flashlight. The symbols on the walls pulsed in time with his racing heart.

“Kenny!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear.

Wet footsteps echoed ahead—many footsteps. Shapes emerged from the dark.

They moved like marionettes on tangled strings, their heads tilting unnaturally. The masks—they all wore those grotesque masks.

“Stay back!” Jim shouted, swinging the bat in a wide arc.

The nearest figure lunged. The bat connected with a sickening crack, and the figure crumpled.

But the others didn’t even flinch. They kept coming, their movements jerky and wrong.

Jim turned and ran.

Behind him, the demon roared, its voice shaking the tunnel. It was awake now.

Fully here. And it was hungry.

The chamber Jim stumbled into was massive, its ceiling arching like the nave of a cathedral. At its center yawned a pit lined with glowing symbols that pulsed like a beating heart. The air shimmered, heavy with sulfur and decay.

Kenny lay near the pit’s edge, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Jim dropped to his knees, fumbling with the ropes.

“It’s too late,” a voice rasped.

Jim looked up to see the cult leader standing across the pit. His mask was gone, revealing a gaunt face twisted with fanaticism.

“You can’t stop it. Aleroth has risen. He will cleanse this world of its filth.”

“Cleanse this, asshole,” Jim growled, tightening his grip on the bat.

The demon laughed, a sound that rattled Jim’s teeth.

“You think your world can contain me?” it bellowed.

Its form was visible now—a grotesque blend of muscle and shadow, its wings stretching impossibly wide.

Jim didn’t think. He scooped Kenny into his arms and ran. Behind him, the cult leader screamed as the demon stepped forward, its claws raking the stone.

They emerged into the night, gasping for air as the ground began to tremble and the tunnel’s entrance caved. Above, the sky turned an unnatural shade of red, and sirens wailed in the distance.

Ah, the noble U.S. Senator Catherine Cortez Masto from Nevada. Once hailed as a beacon of hope for the downtrodden, now stepping into the mire of bureaucratic horse-trading to defend the sanctity of government data against Elon Musk.

What a turn of events.

The Marxist shill and her gaggle of 26 fellow Senators have come out swinging against the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), demanding that they slam the vault doors shut on any private information related to our beloved veterans. They’ve seen the shadowy figure of Musk lurking over the sacred trust between Uncle Sam and the soldiers who fought for him.

Cortez Masto, the self-proclaimed protector of the little guy, wants to hide veterans’ medical records, bank numbers, and disability payments from Musk’s grubby hands. She claims this is in the wake of Musk’s takeover of the Treasury’s payment system—her alarm bells ringing over the idea of an unelected billionaire getting access to data that could jeopardize payments.

But hold on—let’s break this down for a second. Isn’t this the same Senator whose “privacy concerns” align with the the establishment, the same bureaucracy that churns out impersonal red tape by the truckload?

Her argument reads like something from a paranoid dystopian novel: “We must protect veterans from the nefarious designs of unelected billionaires who might use their private information for personal gain.”

Of course, that’s code for protecting the status quo. After all, who else has been profiting off veterans’ sacrifices for decades, if not the tangled web of government contractors and bureaucratic fat cats?

But Cortez Masto, with her earnest cries, might be overlooking one glaring point. Isn’t this the same government that’s been handing over sensitive information to corporate overlords like it’s candy from a broken piñata?

The hypocrisy is as thick as the smoke at a Burning Man rave. Meanwhile, the good Senator conveniently sidesteps the fact that much of this information—disability payments, home addresses, medical history—is already at the mercy of private contractors and government subcontractors.

Who exactly is she trying to fool here?

And then, let’s not ignore the true irony of this whole mess–the very same officials who are wringing their hands over the idea of Musk getting his mitts on veteran data have been bending backward for decades to appease the military-industrial complex. When the hammer drops on veterans’ rights, it’s all crickets. But now, with Musk in the picture, there’s a fight.

But let’s be honest, the political circus is the real spectacle here. The outrage feels less about protecting veterans and more about flexing muscles in an age-old tug-of-war between the technocratic elite and the governmental body clinging to its last threads of power.

If Cortez Masto’s letter was about protecting veterans’ rights, why not demand a full overhaul of how the data is handled—not just a strategic takedown of Musk and his digital empire? It’s all a game of shadows and smoke.

Cortez Masto might be doing her best impression of a revolutionary, but don’t buy into the charade. She’s a part of the same system that’s made an art out of profiteering off the lives of those who’ve sacrificed the most.