Illegal aliens cost U.S. taxpayers $151 billion a year, a 30 percent increase in five years, according to “The Fiscal Burden of Illegal Immigration on United States Taxpayers 2023” by the Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR.)

It concluded that American taxpayers pay around $182 billion each year for services and benefits to illegal immigrants, even though the costs are offset by about $31 billion in taxes collected from what they estimate are 15.5 million illegal immigrants in the U.S.

The report comes as the southern border is being overrun. More than 1.7 million illegals in 2021 and another 2.3 million in 2022, with this year eclipsing those previous years, even though the Biden administration claims those numbers have dropped after changing how they account for illegals statistically.

Joe Biden’s Federal Trade Commission is demanding the identities of journalists in communication with Twitter. Demanding to know the reasons why Twitter terminated James Baker. And is demanding information about whether Twitter was selling its office furniture.

I have never seen a more out-of-control administration let alone a government agency.

But then again, the Biden administration has awarded a biological man an award for courage in honor of International Women’s Day during a ceremony at the White House.

Alba Rueda, a man who identifies as a woman, received the award alongside ten biological women from Secretary of State Antony Blinken and first lady Jill Biden. Rueda is Argentina’s Special Envoy for Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity and the country’s first trans-identifying politician to hold a senior governmental position.

Honestly, I’m confused about where I am nowadays.

 

I have yet to see a Chevy, Ford, or Dodge built better than a metal Tonka truck.

So let me get this straight, an 18-year-old can’t understand their student loans but a 7-year-old can change their gender?

Later doesn’t belong to us.

“Come on, Frank,” the larger turkey said to the thinner one, “He wouldn’t be feeding us so much if he were really going to kill us.”

“You believe what you wanna believe, Harold,” Frank retorted. “I’m out of here!”

Harold would never hear from Frank again. For his part, Harold was delicious.

So, there I was, in the middle of Walmart, fist-fighting with a guy when some shopping suddenly broke out.

Wife: “When I said bring me something back from the beach, I meant a Conch shell!”

Me: “Why the eff didn’t you say that in the first place!” as I struggle to hold on to the seagull I brought her.

That damned Taylor Street will be my death if I am not more careful. The snow in Virginia City once plowed, turns to thick ice quickly because of the wind Mark Twain nicknamed Zephyr. And the town itself is built on a hillside, most every east-west street is severely sloped.

Parking is another matter and rather a dicey affair because storefront owners are very territorial. There is no fear of berating a person for parking in front of their establishment. Further, I have concluded that non one, local or visitor, understands the yellow markings along the curbs, and should they be covered in snow, which they are much of the time, the sign standing above the drifts tells anyone willing to read that they are parking in a loading zone.

So, a lot of the time, I must park on B Street or in the county offices parking lot to the south of the Storey County Courthouse. One does not want to spend too much time parked there as a citation may be forthcoming depending on how busy or lazy the deputies on patrol are or feeling.

Having parked, I grab a bundle of newspapers and make my way toward C Street. It sounds so simple, but it is not, especially when the street, more of an alleyway really, is iced over. It is slow going walking down, but then that Zephyr comes along and knocks the foot out from the traveler and down they tumble. Perhaps I should say, down I tumble.

There is no art in falling. It is clumsy from all angles, but the recovery can become a master class in artfully avoiding busy C Street. In my case, I try to guide my body towards the nearest support beam rising from the boardwalk. It is much like a baller sliding into home plate.

Stopping can also be performed with a certain grace, but one must be quick and strong, or panicked enough to develop super-human strength, because grabbing the post must be done without guile, otherwise it is into the street where it is possible to become a statistic, being run down by a vehicle moving at 20 miles an hour.

Then if there is that time one should miss the post, it is time for either cursing loudly or quietly praying to oneself as the body slips into the thoroughfare. There is also that rare occasion where the town is so snowed in that nobody is traveling the asphalts, save for the plows which have cleared the intersect. This is when gravity and other mechanics of physics take hold and you go sailing through the cross streets and down the hill toward St. Mary’s Church.

I have fallen on Taylor several times, exercising the post-catching maneuver to near perfection and the full race to the church once. In that instance, I needed a new pair of jeans, no not from ripping them out, but from scaring the crap outta myself.

In this one case, I concluded three fingers of whiskey were needed before a new set of pants.

It is more than obvious that I ain’t no pioneer-stock as I once believed myself to be. How do I know? It took me three tries to get up to Virginia City and only on the third attempt did I succeed.

The first time a Nevada State Police Trooper refused to let me drive up Geiger Grade because I didn’t have the required chains on my tires. The second day, I made it as far as the Virginia City Highlands, and because my truck is so light in the rear, I lost traction heading up towards the summit and had to back down.

As I was backing down, I saw a truck pop over the ridge behind me and so I move into the opposite lane, driving in reverse. The truck flew by me and made it over where I couldn’t. Then a car came in the other direction and I figured I was on flat enough ground that I could swing my truck around and head back towards the bottom of the hill.

Rearend dropped off into a snow shallow and I got stuck. Being somewhat of a thinking man, I had a short-handled shovel with me, so I spent about two hours digging myself free. Oddly, I saw no other traffic coming or going that entire time. It was a hopeless feeling.

The third try was a success, though slow going. I managed to make it to Dayton to get my newspapers and finish my route in the valley, heading for Virginia City. The road was fine all the way, not even Griner’s Corner held any problems for me. In town was another story.

Within a two or three-hour period, I managed to get myself stuck twice and thoroughly high-centered a third time. Remember that shovel I had with me the day before? It was stolen from the bed of my truck while I was loading the paper box at the Smiths in Dayton. Stupidly, I watched as the guy walked to his truck with a shovel, tossed it inside the cab of his truck, climb in after it and drive off.

The high centering happened behind Sait Mary’s Church. I parked and got out only to have my truck start sliding downhill in the lot. I had parked on a thick patch of ice and did not realize it until I stepped foot on it. Since I was unable to halt the momentum, I gave in, popped the brake, and let the truck slid into the drift.

Thankfully, Bum Hess and his wife came out of the church and he was able to give me a push after we hand-dug all the snow from beneath my truck’s chassis. Wet and freezing, I was very happy to get in my truck and power away to Taylor then make the corner at F Street, park for a while and let my heater dry me out and warm me up.

Once home, I saw a photograph or perhaps a drawing of Snowshoe Thompson, who is renowned for delivering the mail from Genoa to Lake Tahoe on a set of skis he caved. Yeah, embarrassingly I ain’t no pioneer stock.