In shadows deep, where hope does fade,
A tale unfolds of a world betrayed.
Clinton, Bill, and Hillary’s dance,
Arkancide whispers, a deadly trance.

Enemies fall, threats veiled in dread,
A web of deceit where darkness is spread.
Definitions blurred, what is the ‘is’?
In the corridors of power, truth finds abyss.

Kennedy’s echo, another lost in prime,
A legacy shattered in the hands of time.
Executive walls, barriers tall,
Between agencies, powers enthrall.

Bureaucracy reigns, a lettered mob,
FBI, CIA, in the alphabet’s sob.
FISA whispers secrets untold,
LGTBQ, in the margins, love is sold.

Hopelessness weaves through the corridors,
Of political games and hidden wars.
A tapestry woven in despair,
Injustice thrives, and truth is rare.

In shadows deep, where voices fade,
A tale of despair, in silence, laid.
Canceled, crushed, by thug-booted fate,
Neck-bound truths, a heavyweight.

Bullet whispers, a cruel refrain,
In the corridors of a tortured brain.
The price of truth, a heavy toll,
Conservatism crumbles, a broken soul.

Constitution’s echo, a distant plea,
Lost in the void of a stormy sea.
White male, Christian, a label worn,
In a world where hope is truly torn.

In the whispers of promises, a tale unfurls,
“Fundamentally changing America,” it twirls.
Nice words danced upon the political stage,
Powerful rhetoric, captivating the age.

Yet beneath the veneer of hope so bright,
I heard echoes of truth taking its flight.
Justice, once sturdy, now a fragile hue,
The American way, eroding from view.

A symphony of promises, a cacophony of deceit,
As illusions of progress, the masses did greet.
But in the shadows, I discerned a bitter truth,
A metamorphosis unfolding, altering the sleuth.

Destruction woven into the fabric of change,
A narrative spun, but realities estrange.
For in the pursuit of transformation grand,
The foundations crumbled, slipping like sand.

The essence of America, a beacon once pure,
Now dimmed by the rhetoric that did allure.
As the winds of change swept truth away,
I heard the mournful whispers in the fray.

In the land where dreams once flourished bright,
A tale unfolds of hope turned to night.
From the days of Obama, a shift was seen,
The American dream a fading sheen.

Once upon a time, a home stood tall,
With a white picket fence, a cherished call.
But shadows crept in, and dreams were shaken,
The very foundation now cracked and forsaken.

Under Obama’s watch, a nation stirred,
A complex tale of dreams deferred.
Economic storms and whispers of change,
Yet not all found their lives rearranged.

The American dream, a paradoxical theme,
Woven into the fabric of the nation’s dream.
But as time unfolded, disparities grew,
The dream’s demise, a bitter brew.

In shadows cast by unseen fears,
A tale unfolds through silent tears.
Covid’s grip, a relentless hold,
Worse than the Spanish Flu of old.

A virus spreading, unseen and cold,
Stories of despair, once untold.
The vaccine’s promise, a cruel jest,
Taking both the young and the rest.

Heart attacks, a silent foe,
Stocks plummet in a relentless woe.
Blood clots weave a darkened thread,
Through the fabric of lives, where hope has fled.

A narrative spun, a sinister ploy,
Unchecked ballots steal the joy.
Whispers of control, a puppet’s dance,
A stolen vote, a fading chance.

In the dance of power, money’s role,
A puppeteer’s grasp takes its toll.
Propaganda whispers lies,
As families crumble, shattered ties.

Destruction of the bonds we knew,
A world unraveling, tried and true.
Hopelessness, a heavy shroud,
In this tale of chaos, we’re all avowed.

In a land where politics dance their tune,
A tale unfolds a curious monsoon.
Biden, they say a puppet on strings,
Mentally unaware, an effing dementia thing.

In the corridors of power, a puppeteer’s sway,
Obama’s legacy on Biden does weigh.
Yet, in the shadows, a story untold,
Of a leader’s journey, both young and old.

Biden, they claim, in a pants-soiled plight,
A moment captured in the public’s sight.
But in this saga, let’s not just dwell,
For there’s more to the narrative to tell.

Economics, a realm where battles are fought,
Inflation’s rise, a challenge unsought.
The puppeteer’s hand, guiding the helm,
Yet, complexities rise like a swelling realm.

Open borders, a divisive debate,
As nations grapple with a changing state.
Biden’s tenure, a chapter low-bound,
Navigating borders while no solution is found.

Political foes, in the crosshairs they stand,
A dance of power, a shifting sand.
Yet, let us ponder, with a critical gaze,
The intricacies hidden in political plays.

In shadows cast by unseen hands,
Deep State beats down the door,
Innocence crumbles like shifting sands,
Allowing guilt to skate free evermore.

A dance of power, a clandestine waltz,
Fear sown in hearts, a sinister art,
The American Dream, its hue now faults,
Turning red, tearing the seams apart.

Land of the free, shackled by schemes,
The U.S. breathes with a heavy sigh,
Whispers of liberty drowned in extremes,
As truth and falsehood entwine and vie.

The innocent weep, their voices suppressed,
A symphony of silence, a muted scream,
While the guilty dance, forever blessed,
In the corridors of power, a deceptive dream.

In a world spun from a conspiracy thread,
New World Order whispers, shadows spread.
Adrenochrome tales, a dark elixir’s lore,
A potion of fear, mystery galore.

Pedophilia’s stain on innocence,
A haunting truth, a vile offense.
“You’ll own nothing and like it,” they decree,
Yet echoes of freedom persistently plea.

Environmental religion, a fervent creed,
Sacrifices made for a planet in need.
Cattle fall to save from warming’s embrace,
A paradoxical dance in a perilous space.

Epstein’s demise, a cryptic affair,
Hanging questions linger in the air.
Hillary’s name in the corridors of doubt,
A cloak of suspicion, a shadowed route.

Trump and Elon Musk, gods of the realm,
Heroes to some, to others overwhelm.
The Constitution ablaze, its words in flight,
In the flames of change, a contentious fight.

In shadows cast by twisted fate,
A tale unfolds of a broken state.
Where justice weeps in the hallowed halls,
And judges dance as the deep state calls.

Rule of law a forgotten song,
Drowned out by the sirens, loud and strong.
A puppetry of power, a sinister game,
Where justice bows, and judges maim.

God’s command, a distant plea,
Lost in the echoes of a dark decree.
Satan’s purpose, a wicked grin,
As the American Dream withers within.

Gasping breaths, the nation’s last,
As the echoes of despair are cast.
The legacy media, a deceptive guise,
A foe of truth in a world of lies.

The American people betrayed and worn,
In a land where truth is trampled and torn.
A poem without hope, a mournful ode,
To a nation lost on a treacherous road.

In shadows deep, where hope does weep,
Election deception, a bitter potion seeps.
No words from the left, no solace found,
In the obvious truth, we’re left unsound.

No hope to cling, like a ship untethered,
A despairing voyage where dreams are severed.
“I will not die on my knees,” a defiant plea,
Test me, for I know what I know, resolute and free.

The echoes of disillusionment, a haunting sound,
A symphony of despair, in silence profound.
No balm for the wounds, where truth lies slain,
In the desolate landscape, hope can’t sustain.

Yet, in this darkness, a flicker may persist,
A tiny ember in the tempest, unclenched fist.
For even in hopelessness, a spirit may rise,
Defying the shadows, reaching for the skies.

But will it soar or falter in the abyss?
A question unanswered in the realm of this.
In the face of despair, resilience may grow,
A spark of defiance against the ebb and flow.

So let not hopelessness be the final decree,
For within the depths, a chance to be free.
“I will not die on my knees,” the anthem may go,
A testament to strength in the face of woe.

In this poetic dissent, a vigilant plea,
For the heart of the nation to reclaim its glee.
Amidst the rhetoric, let justice find its say,
Preserving the American way, come what may.

Looking back, I can recall AIDS activists shattering the doors of the National Institute of Health in 1990 in protests against Dr. Anthony Fauci.

The same activists lit smoke bombs, carrying an effigy of Fauci’s head on a stick, brandishing coffins emblazoned with the phrase, “FUCK YOU FAUCI.” They accused Fauci of prioritizing Big Pharma’s profits over precious human lives.

Fauci deliberately obstructed access to safe, effective, off-patent therapeutical treatments for AIDS, all while promoting a pricey and lethal chemotherapy drug that lined the pockets of Big Pharma. Hundreds of affordable treatments remained unstudied, cast aside as Fauci went all-in on Azidothymidine (AZT,) an abandoned cancer drug discarded for its fatal toxicity and its price tag of $8,000 per year.

Fast forward three decades to COVID-19, and the chorus of dissent has only intensified. Tens of millions, including thousands of scientists, doctors, and medical professionals, resoundingly accuse Dr. Anthony Fauci of funding deadly gain-of-function research with Chinese military scientists at the Wuhan Laboratory, promoting devastating lockdowns, and blocking access to safe and effective off-patent therapeutical treatments.

All the while, he lined the coffers of Big Pharma, his pockets, and assisted the Communists in rigging a presidential election.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Men will arrive in Heaven 30 minutes before women. It says in Revelation 8:1, ‘And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.’”

The moor, with its misty expanses and windswept landscapes, seemed to echo with the whispers of the supernatural. Dartmoor, known for its rugged beauty and mysterious allure, had long been where reality and folklore intertwined.

Inside the secluded, centuries-old Widecombe-in-the-Moor mansion perched on the edge of Dartmoor, a singular great room was held, shrouded in mystery. The locals spoke in hushed tones about the legends surrounding it, and a name echoed through the village with a sense of foreboding, “The Room of Eternal Waiting.”

In the heart of that room stood a window, its panes warped by time. The villagers warned of the ghostly figure seen at that window on stormy nights, a silhouette waiting in silent anticipation.

One storm-laden evening, a curious adventurer named Alex decided to spend a night in the haunted mansion. Armed with skepticism and a dim lantern, she entered the creaking hall and made her way to the infamous room. The air was thick with an otherworldly chill as she reached the threshold.

The window loomed, its glass rattling with the gusts of wind outside. As the storm intensified, Alex felt a shiver down her spine. The room seemed to pulse with an ancient energy, and an unsettling feeling settled in the air.

Suddenly, the wind outside seemed to carry whispers, indistinct but haunting. The room flickered with a spectral glow, and there, by the window, a figure materialized. A woman in a flowing, tattered gown stood with her back turned, facing the beyond.

Alex’s heart pounded, fear gripping her like icy tendrils. The woman turned slowly, her face obscured by shadows. She gestured toward the window as if urging Alex to see what lay beyond the storm.

Compelled by an otherworldly force, Alex approached the window. Through the rain-streaked glass, shadows danced in the night. Images of a bygone era flickered – a tragedy, a lost love, a betrayal. The room seemed to echo with the anguished cries of the past.

As Alex peered through the rain-streaked window, darkness unfolded beyond the glass. The storm raged with newfound intensity, casting grotesque shadows that danced in the moonlight. Trees twisted and contorted like skeletal fingers clawing at night, their branches forming eerie silhouettes against the ominous sky.

In the distance, obscured by the mist and torrential rain, Alex discerned faint shapes – ghostly apparitions with hollow eyes that seemed to fixate on her. The air turned cold, carrying an unsettling whisper that sent shivers down Alex’s spine.

The spectral forms drew close, their contorted faces emerging from the gloom. Twisted, contorted expressions of agony etched into their ethereal features. They moaned in a haunting chorus, each lamenting the tragedies of their untold stories.

Suddenly, the figures began to claw at the window, their translucent hands leaving streaks of frost on the glass. Desperate eyes locked onto Alex’s, pleading for release from their spectral purgatory. The atmosphere thickened with a suffocating dread as if the very essence of their anguish seeped through the window, permeating the room.

In the icy mist, a faceless entity emerged from the darkness, its form shape-shifting and amorphous. It loomed as an embodiment of all the horrors lingering in the haunted mansion. An otherworldly howl echoed through the night, a sound that seemed to pierce through the fabric of reality.

As Alex recoiled in terror, the window seemed to warp and contort. It became a portal to a nightmarish dimension, a glimpse into the tortured souls and entities that lurked just beyond the veil. The room pulsated with otherworldly energy, and the air became heavy with the weight of the supernatural.

As Alex continued to gaze through the distorted window, the visions intensified. Amidst the swirling mist and ghostly shapes, a reflection emerged, her image, twisted and contorted, an embodiment of malevolence that sent a chill through her shattering soul.

The doppelgänger of Alex, this sinister entity, moved with an unsettling grace. Her eyes, once mirrors of innocence, now glowed with an eerie luminescence. The malicious grin on her face hinted at a darkness that transcended the mere shadows of the haunted room.

A sinister voice, a wicked echo only Alex could hear, slithered through her mind.

“You can’t escape me,” it hissed, the words dripping with venom. “I am your deepest fears, your darkest desires. Embrace the darkness within.”

Alex clutched her head, the whispers growing louder and more insistent. The spectral figure of herself seemed to revel in the torment, her every movement accompanied by an unsettling cackle that reverberated through the room.

“I see your every flaw, your every secret,” her doppelgänger taunted. “You can’t hide from yourself, Alex. Embrace the darkness, and the power it holds.”

The visions played out like a nightmarish ballet, each movement synchronized with the haunting whispers that gnawed at Alex’s sanity. The sinister entity danced closer, the distorted reflection of Alex mocking her with gestures of glee.

“No! This can’t be real!” Alex cried out, her voice mingling with the diabolical laughter in her mind.

The room seemed to close in, the walls pulsating with an otherworldly rhythm that echoed the descent into madness. As the wicked entity continued its torment, Alex’s mind became a battleground between reality and the macabre vision unfolding before her. The whispers clawed at her sanity, tearing through the fabric of her thoughts and replacing them with a cacophony of darkness.

As the night wore on, Alex felt the weight of the visions woven into the very fabric of the mansion. The woman by the window was a keeper of forgotten tales, eternally waiting for someone to witness the haunting narratives of her life.

With trembling hands, Alex stumbled backward, breaking eye contact with the grotesque phantoms beyond the window. The storm outside began to subside, and as the last echoes of the spectral moans faded, the window returned to a seemingly ordinary state.

Yet, the indelible image of the haunted abyss lingered in Alex’s mind, a reminder that some windows unveil the darkness within ourselves and the terrifying unknown that lies ever-so-slightly beyond the threshold of perception.

As the first light of dawn painted the sky over Dartmoor, the villagers of Widecombe-in-the-Moor were roused by an eerie stillness. The legends of the haunted mansion on Dartmoor had seeped into the collective consciousness of the locals, and they couldn’t shake the feeling that something otherworldly had transpired in the night.

Venturing into the depths of Dartmoor, the villagers discovered Alex huddled near the ancient mansion, her eyes wide with a frantic terror. Mumbling incoherently about ghostly apparitions and tormented souls, Alex was a mere shell of the curious adventurer who had entered the mansion the night before.

The villagers exchanged worried glances as they realized the Room of Eternal Waiting had claimed another victim. Alex would never recover from her night of high terror.

My Cousin Elmo says, “There’s always enough asphalt to make speed bumps, but never enough to fill potholes.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Ever notice that Joe Biden doesn’t sniff Black people?”

Washoe County Registrar of Voters Jamie Rodriguez tendered her resignation on Tuesday, January 2.

Rodriguez assumed the role in 2022, taking over from former Registrar Deanna Spikula, who resigned amidst allegations of harassment and threats following an extended leave of absence. An investigation by the Secretary of State found no credible evidence supporting Spikula’s claims.

Her resignation coincides with an extensive audit and ongoing overhaul of Washoe County’s election department and systems. The Elections Group conducted an 80-page audit, revealing errors and confusion in the election process. 

Recommendations included hiring additional staff, enhancing training and communication, and providing necessary resources for increased productivity. Despite initial delays in approving the $100,000 audit, Governor Joe Lombardo appointed Clara Andriola, who, along with Chair Alexis Hill and Mariluz Garcia, approved the audit. 

Recognizing the need for the overhaul, County Manager Eric Brown emphasized the importance of revamping the election system. Meanwhile, Secretary of State Cisco Aguilar is working to reform Nevada’s election system by implementing the Voter Registration and Election Management Solution (VREMS). 

The system aims to establish a centralized statewide voter registration database, connecting election management systems across the state for secure and accurate elections. Although the VREMS system won’t be ready for the February 2024 presidential primary, the county anticipates initial functionality by June 2024 and its complete operation by 2025. 

Deputy Registrar Cari Ann Burgess will serve as interim registrar, pending the County Commission’s appointment during its Tuesday, January 16 meeting. Assistant County Manager Kate Thomas, a former Nevada Deputy Secretary of State, will support the registrar’s office during the transition.

My Cousin Elmo says, “A large group of people is called a ‘screw that!’”

My Cousin Elmo says, “‘Climate activists’ who clue themselves to roadways, are really ‘weather retards.’”

We are in serious trouble!

Consider me fortunate – or so I initially thought – to have been one of several reporters granted admission to a U.S. government counter-terrorism course involving several agencies and military personnel without charge and in the comforts of my home and office.

As a participant, unbiased insights are what I expected, but what unfolded left me with a different reality. However, what I encountered was beyond real-world training; it was a journey into the subtle realms of ideological influence or propaganda.

The course began with an unsettling tone with a forceful promotion of cultural relativism, coupled with a deliberate absence of opposing viewpoints during discussions on the definition of terrorism. The departure from an objective educational approach raised immediate red flags.

The mandatory inclusion of pronoun training appeared disconnected from the practicalities of preventing or responding to terror attacks. In the face of potential threats like terror attacks, knife assaults, or gun violence, the relevance of forced pronoun training becomes questionable.

This mismatch highlights a potential disconnect between classroom training and the critical skills needed to counter acts of terrorism. The course became a contentious point of discussion, prompting my reservations about the integrity of the course content.

Further, the exploration of the Israel-Hamas conflict heightened my concerns as a speaker presented the Jewish State as the aggressor when Hamas attacked Israel first. Most frightening was that no one argued the point, and each sat quietly like good little boys and girls, minding the teacher.

What also struck me was the apparent downplaying of Islamic extremism, with a disproportionate emphasis on right-wing extremism. Not once did I hear anything negative about the Taliban, al-Qaeda, or Hezbollah, but podcaster Joe Rogan was named an example of a right-wing extremist, and he has, as far as I know, never picked up a firearm, rocket-propelled grenade, or donned a vest-bomb and killed people.

Finally, following continued warnings from the U.S. State Department about the expectation of Hezbollah striking within America’s mainland adds an urgency to my concern. The training lacks a comprehensive, unbiased approach to counter-terrorism, raising questions about our preparedness to address real threats and the safety of the United States and its allies.