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Here’s a tale as worn as an old saddle and just as creaky–Jose Ricardo Lopez Munoz, a man who’s treated the U.S. border like a swinging saloon door, has found himself once again on the wrong side of the law—and right where the Department of Justice expected he’d be.

Mr. Munoz, a Mexican national who seems to collect aliases the way some folks collect bottle caps–18 at last count–got nabbed by ICE in Las Vegas on April 13th. That makes at least four curtain calls for his unlawful entry onto American soil—deported in ‘95, ‘97, ’13. And he still had the gall to pop back up in November 2023 like a bad penny. They say the third time’s the charm, but Mr. Munoz must be testing a theory about the fourth.

Now the DOJ, no stranger to his shenanigans, has charged him with illegal reentry again, which is putting it politely. He isn’t a fella who lost his way. The man’s record reads more like the resume of a stagecoach bandit—felonies for illegal reentry, menacing, and even picking fights with deadly weapons to boost the morale of his criminal gang.

If justice takes its course, Mr. Munoz may be trading his dusty desert escapades for a federally issued set of stripes, up to 20 years’ worth, plus three on a leash, and a mighty steep fine to boot. In short–the DOJ ain’t buying what Munoz is selling, and neither should we.

He’s had more chances than a hobo on a train, and it’s high time the law got the last hand.

If you ever wanted to watch a man try to juggle porcupines while balancing on a washtub in a windstorm, you could do worse than a front-row seat to Nevada’s legislative deadline week. Out of a thousand bright ideas scribbled down by ambitious minds, 300 went to their rest—no hymns, fanfare, just a bureaucratic shrug.

First, the courts gave a swift kick to a lawsuit claiming Nevada’s SB406 law would muzzle election watchers into silence for fear of being accused of “intimidation.” Plaintiffs, led by Robert Beadles, argued it’d keep patriotic eyes from spotting electoral funny business.

But the Ninth Circuit Court said no harm, no foul—especially since neither the Governor nor the Secretary of State has the teeth to enforce the thing. Also, they reminded everyone the law don’t outlaw watching, just harassing and pointed out that some fuss over a 2020 tweet from the Attorney General was barking up a ghost tree since SB406 wasn’t even born yet.

Meanwhile, back in the Legislature, SB74 marched onward like a mule with blinders, dragging behind it a wagon-load of election updates. The bill would let more voters—especially the sick, disabled, or isolated cast their votes through electronic systems.

It throws in goodies like credit card payments for candidate filing fees, easier ballot access for independents, and even allows student trainees to lend a hand during elections. There’s also a batch of safety upgrades, audits, and modernizations to tidy up the process, along with a nod to privacy for elderly dependents.

In short, it’s a big stew of voting reform with a little something for everyone—unless you’re a fan of red tape, in which case, condolences.

Back on the chopping block, the mighty Culinary Union came up empty-handed. Their dreams of a Nevada lottery died in the shadow of casino titans, with AJR5 failing to make the finish line.

Speaker Steve Yeager blamed the death on money trouble and federal cuts. Likewise, SB360, which would’ve brought back daily hotel room cleanings, was left to gather dust after Gov. Lombardo swatted it away like a June bug on a church window.

Still alive—barely—was SB78, a scheme to tidy up the state’s boards and commissions. It squeaked through a committee with the grace of a three-legged cat, lacking support from most Democrats and limping into the next stage with little certainty of survival.

Assembly Bill 388 had better luck, getting through despite business groups hollering that 12 weeks of paid family leave for workers would pinch the purse strings too tight. Nevertheless, the bill marches on, promising rest and reprieve for parents across the state—unless it trips later.

Elsewhere, dreams fizzled. For the fifth straight session, a plan to install an Inspector General to hunt waste and fraud went belly-up.

A bipartisan idea to require age checks on dirty websites never saw the light of day. Another effort to join the Nurse Licensure Compact meant to ease the nurse shortage, died from lack of attention—though unions muttered it was a wolf in hospital scrubs aiming to bust bargaining power.

On reproductive rights, SB139 quietly expired, leaving Nevada as the last state where self-managed abortion can still land you in trouble. And transparency? Not this year, as two amendments to make lawmakers play by the same rules they set for everyone else got ignored like a poor cousin at Thanksgiving.

In all–the session barrels ahead, dragging hopes and heartbreak behind it like tin cans tied to a wedding car. Some ideas lived, some died, and others are clinging to life with all the grit of a desert cactus in a drought.

Now, don’t let the cherry blossoms fool you—spring of 2025 came in not with a whisper but with a rattle, a stomp, and the unmistakable crack of a riding crop as President Trump, back in the saddle and looking to clean house, gave Washington a fresh dose of good old-fashioned common sense. And wouldn’t you know it, the very folks who’ve been neck-deep in bureaucratic gravy for years didn’t much care for it.

First out the gate came a mighty fine idea, dressed up in official language–a Section 232 investigation into foreign-made pharmaceuticals. Some city slickers called it “protectionism,” but folks who’ve spent time worrying about medicine shortages or remember the old saying about not relying on your neighbor’s barn to house your horses called it clever. Trump’s team, ever the eagle-eyed watchdogs, figured maybe it was time we stopped depending on countries that don’t like us for the stuff that keeps Americans breathing. Imagine that.

Sure, it confused a few lobbyists who’d rather keep the gravy train running on foreign tracks. One minute, they were popping champagne over exemptions, then calling emergency meetings. But that’s how reform goes—like pruning a rose bush, sometimes you gotta clip the dead ends to get a proper bloom.

Meanwhile, down in the Department of Justice, another old mess was getting the broom: the curious case of Alexander Smirnov. Here’s a fella who spun a yarn about the Bidens and some Ukrainian millions. Whether he exaggerated or got crossed up by folks who didn’t want that story seeing daylight, the left-wing press was quick to paint him as a liar and toss the whole thing out like last week’s fish. But Smirnov’s defenders reckon he’s being railroaded—locked up not for telling a tale but for telling the wrong one at the wrong time.

And while the legal eagles circle, folks with working eyes and ears remember that back in 2020, the establishment told us a lot of things were “Russian disinfo” that turned out to be fabrications. So maybe let’s not be so quick to toss Smirnov on the bonfire before we get all the facts.

Then came the third act–which had boots on the ground and sirens in the air. Henrry Josue Villatoro Santos—a top dog in MS-13, according to the FBI—was nabbed in a hard-hitting operation spearheaded by Attorney General Pam Bondi and FBI Director Kash Patel. It was a clean arrest with a clear message–under Trump, gang leaders don’t get a free pass—they get a ticket out.

The case got dropped—something to do with the evidence or lack of local cooperation—but the administration didn’t let him walk free. Nope. They did the next best thing–got the paperwork moving for deportation to El Salvador, where justice for MS-13 types is less about paperwork and more about consequences.

His lawyer cried foul, of course, saying sending Villatoro Santos to prison down there was like sentencing him to the underworld. Well, maybe it’s time someone did. The American people are tired of cartel leaders hiding behind due process while communities suffer.

So, what ties it all together? Easy–a White House that’s finally playing offense. Not for power. Not for show. But for the folks back home who’ve watched their country get picked apart by globalism, soft-on-crime policies, and bureaucratic fog.

Trump isn’t just making noise—he’s making moves. And if that ruffles the feathers of the swamp creatures, well, that’s the sound of progress.

Well now, gather ’round and let me spin you a yarn ’bout modern progress ridin’ into the high desert with a pocket full of lithium dreams and not a lick of common sense.

Out in a patch of Nevada called The Bench—where folks tend their chickens and keep a wary eye on the horizon—there’s a row brewin’. It seems the local bigwigs over at the Churchill County Planning Commission gave the green light to a lithium battery storage outfit plunked right between an oil refinery, a gas line, and a whole bunch of water. Now, if that don’t sound like tinder in a thunderstorm, I don’t know what does.

Leading the charge with a pitchfork in one hand and a clipboard in the other is one Miss Carolyn Kendrick-Heaverne. She and her neighbors claim the commission slipped that permit through quicker than a greased pig at a county fair—callin’ it a “regular” special use permit when it oughta been a “major” one, and holding the kind of meeting that don’t get advertised much but by whispers and shadows.

County officials, in the manner of bureaucrats everywhere, say the safety studies are up to Redwood Materials—the company plantin’ this thing—while the land’s already zoned for such industrial shenanigans. But the townsfolk ain’t convinced and have filed an appeal faster than you can say “spontaneous combustion.”

While The Bench is busy fighting off batteries, other Nevadans are fussin’ over billion-dollar bargains. When Tesla first came to town with its ol’ gigafactory promise, Storey County rolled out the welcome mat and threw in every tax break this side of the Mississippi. Sure enough, the economy boomed, and roads got paved, but only ‘cause Tesla played nice and paid for it.

Now there’s talk of Senate Bill 69—a plan to make big companies fork over their fair share when they set up shop in a place with more cows than voters. Firefighters are all for it. So are the counties. But the business types and city slickers from Las Vegas are hollerin’ foul, claiming everything’s workin’ just fine the way it is.

And if that ain’t enough electric drama for one state, down in Las Vegas, a fella named Paul Hyon Kim decided to light up a Tesla yard like it was the Fourth of July—gunfire, arson, and enough firepower to make General Custer blush. He got hisself arrested, denied bail, and now faces trial in June. Judge reckoned lettin’ him loose would be like tossin’ a match into a powder keg.

So there you have it, dear reader. From Fallon to Fernley, from factories to firestorms, Nevada’s sittin’ on the frontier of a new age—half silver rush, half ghost story—and if you ask me, she’s gonna need more than battery power to keep from blowin’ her top.

The old sedan coughed and sputtered as he eased it into the gravel lot, tires crunching like brittle bones underfoot. He killed the engine, stepped out, and slung his backpack over one shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort against the chill of the morning.

Across the lot, a pickup truck squatted, its windows black as a raven’s eye, engine idling low and steady, a beast lying in wait. He glanced at it—nothing more—and started up the trail, the low hills ahead whispering promises of solitude.

Ten minutes in, boots scuffing the dirt, he saw her. A woman, coming down the path he was climbing, her face plain but pleasant, like a faded photograph you’d find in a thrift store frame. “Good morning,” he said, tipping his head. “Morning,” she replied, her voice soft as a breeze through dead leaves.

They passed each other, and he kept going, the rhythm of his steps steady, the world quiet save for the rustle of branches overhead.

Another ten minutes up the trail, the path twisting like a snake through the scrub, and there she was again. Same woman, same steady stride, coming down toward him.

He didn’t clock it at first—his mind was on the hill ahead, the ache in his calves—but then it hit him, a cold prickle at the base of his skull. He stopped and turned to watch her retreating figure, her shape shrinking toward the parking lot.

Same jacket. Same walk.

His gut twisted. Hadn’t the woman just gone that way?

He shook it off or tried to. He pressed on, the trail narrowing now. As he rounded a bend, he saw the same woman standing in the middle of the trail.

Same woman, same face, close enough to see the faint lines etched around her eyes, the faint smirk tugging at her lips. No sound but the thud of his heart, loud as a hammer on an anvil.

Panic clawed up his throat. He didn’t say a word—just spun on his heel and bolted, legs pumping, backpack slamming against his spine.

Behind him, he heard the slap of her shoes on the dirt, gaining. She chased him with no other sound, just the relentless pursuit, a nightmare stitched into the daylight.

He hit the parking lot at a dead sprint, fumbling for his keys, damn near dropping them before he yanked the car door open. He threw himself inside, jamming the key into the ignition as the engine roared.

Gravel sprayed as he reversed, tires screaming as he peeled out, the highway a blurry salvation ahead. In the rearview, he saw her—standing there, watching, not even winded.

She turned and walked calmly to the idling truck. The door swung open like it’d been waiting for her, and she climbed in.

Inside, two others sat, mirror images of her—same face, same smirk, three peas from a pod. Triplets.

The one he’d run from settled into the seat, brushing dirt from her hands. “I told you it would be fun,” she said.

And all three laughed.

JNow, it may strike you as downright peculiar that in a city proud of its laws, its Capitol dome, and its well-swept front steps, the business of justice is done with less public show than a magician at a church picnic. But in Carson City—the land of sagebrush and sleepy courthouses—only one of 479 criminal cases last year made it to trial.

That’s not a typo, friend. That’s one, as in singular, lonesome, and about as rare as a politician who answers a yes-or-no question.

According to the latest reckonings, 99.49 percent of criminal cases in the capital got tidied up with plea deals in 2023—no trial, no jury, no highfalutin speeches about justice.

A signature here, a nod there, and back to business. Even across the rest of the Silver State, where numbers already lean toward the pragmatic over the poetic, Carson City stands out like a jackrabbit at a turtle race.

Take the tale of a woman who, in January 2024, was strangled by her then-boyfriend, a fellow named Arnold “Franky” Flores-Estrada, and the whole act was caught in glorious, unblinking 4K. Now, if justice were a clear-eyed mule, this man would’ve had his day in court, facing the full weight of the law.

Instead, the charge got dropped to a misdemeanor. Why? Because plea deals don’t like messes, and trials are expensive.

It wasn’t Franky’s first rodeo, either. His previous rough handling of a partner got swept under the legal rug, sealed tight like a whiskey barrel, and never brought up when he came around the second time.

His punishment? Thirty days in jail—served on weekends, like a part-time job. When he needed an extension on his sentence, the court granted it.

Meanwhile, his victim had herself a hard row to hoe. She tried to stop Franky from collecting his firearms—fearing, perhaps sensibly, that he might not use them for duck hunting—and the prosecutor threatened her with false imprisonment.

Reports of him violating a protective order were left to wither like tumbleweeds in the wind. And when the woman went to collect court records, she was turned away by folks who claimed they’d never heard of her—though she was the one getting strangled.

Now, there’s a law on the books in Nevada called Marsy’s Law, promising protection from harassment, timely information, and a place at the table where justice gets served. But the law, it seems, has no teeth—more like dentures left in a glass. Violations get shrugged off, and victims get left with little more than a court transcript and a sense of being had.

Then there’s the business of bail. Franky, having some money–or knowing someone who did–paid his way out with a ten-thousand-dollar check that later became five. He skipped the hearing, setting limits on his freedom. No questions asked.

Meanwhile, the Nevada Pretrial Risk Assessment—an oracle that reads numbers but not threats—declared him low-risk, like a drizzle on a cloudy day. Never mind the prior charges or the court extensions lost in the shuffle.

So here we sit in a town where crime dramas on television promise trials, justice, and solemn reckonings—but in real life, justice is processed faster than canned peaches at a factory. Victims watch as abusers get weekend jail and sealed pasts while they navigate a maze of clerical errors and unreturned calls.

Hopefully, her story kicks up enough dust to make folks take notice. She wants reforms, not revenge—a system that respects victims, not just the convenience of the docket. But until that day comes, Carson City’s courtroom remains more mirage than monument where the only trial anyone’s sure to face is the trial of being heard.

Now, I have always believed that a government should mind its own business, and that includes keeping its fingers off a man’s conscience and his Bible. But in Washington, that belief has long been seen as a quaint artifact, like powdered wigs or honest politicians.

During Holy Week, when Christians reflect on suffering, sacrifice, and resurrection—the State Department finally dared to look itself in the mirror. And to the surprise of many–though not to those with a whit of sense left in them–what it saw was a shadowy trail of anti-Christian bias stretching back years.

Secretary Marco Rubio, a man some say prays before breakfast and others say prays over policy, sent a cable to every American outpost on earth—an urgent call for employees to report religious discrimination they may have suffered or witnessed under the Biden administration. Not just discrimination, mind you, but anything from being forced to hide a crucifix on a desk to losing a job because of one’s conviction to refuse experimental vaccines or reject enforced use of “preferred pronouns” that conflicted with their faith.

Now, some folks laughed. But it wasn’t funny.

Men and women of conscience endured whispered mockery and quiet punishments for four years—not because they did wrong–but because their moral compass didn’t come with the latest political trends. One former staffer said he’d been warned not to “offend” colleagues by referencing Easter in an office memo—this in a country founded by men who once called on Divine Providence in every second sentence.

And while the usual critics sneered, called it “political theater” or “dog-whistling,” the truth was as plain as the cross on Calvary–Christians got pushed to the margins. Under the guise of “equity,” many were denied basic religious accommodations, passed over for promotions, or publicly shamed for their beliefs.

But now—finally—there was a reckoning.

And who, you might ask, was behind the resurrection of moral accountability? Oddly enough, it was the same Trump administration figures the press loves to mock and the bureaucrats love to fear.

Take Pete Marocco, for instance—a man sent to dismantle USAID, not because he hated foreign aid, but because he hated waste, fraud, and the endless funneling of taxpayer money to programs that had nothing to do with American values. He did his job, cleaned the house, and left before anyone could throw the first stone.

That’s called honor.

And then came Lew Olowski—appointed to run Global Talent Management, who didn’t tiptoe into the office like some paper-shuffling diplomat. No, he came in quoting Scripture and Lincoln, reminding his fellow officers that swearing an oath means something, or at least it used to before oaths became just another formality conveniently dismissed. The Constitution, he said, was more than parchment—it’s a covenant.

And he was right.

Some cried foul that he wasn’t a career diplomat, and that’s precisely why he’s needed. The swamp doesn’t clean itself with the same moss that grows in it.

His wife, Heather, now leads the department’s civil rights office. And with the new task force, she’s giving a voice to the voiceless—to the man told to remove his Bible verse, to the woman forced out of her position because she wouldn’t put a rainbow sticker on her office door. What enrages the critics isn’t that Christians are asserting their rights—it’s that they’re no longer content to turn the other cheek while their faith gets trampled in the name of “progress.”

For years, the Elite had its task forces—on climate, gender, race, and pronouns. Now, at long last, the Trump-aligned holdouts in the government have one of their own–a task force for truth, conscience, and the defense of those who believe in something higher than a government paycheck.

The press may scoff, the bureaucrats may seethe, and the careerists may clutch their security cards—but the message has been sent–A man’s faith is not government property. And if he must suffer for it, then at least let it be on record.

And if Washington can’t stomach that, then perhaps it is not the Christians who are out of step with America—but the government.

Reporting with a quill in one hand and a snort of sagebrush tea in the other

Now, I don’t rightly know how the good folks east of the Mississippi come to believe that Nevada is a singular neon bulb named Las Vegas, flickering out promises of blackjack fortunes and buffet regrets. But I aim to correct the notion with the same fervor as a barber shaves a man running late to church.

Nevada, dear reader, is a land stitched together by the silver veins of history, the murmur of the Humboldt, and the hardscrabble grit of towns like Ely, Tonopah, and Elko–whose names ain’t appeared in a headline since Roosevelt wore knickerbockers. And yet these places live and breathe still, and their people work the land, herd the stock, mine the hills, and–yes–occasionally lose a dollar or two in Winnemucca’s more adventurous establishments.

It is true, as some fretting professors and gloomy senators now say, that tariffs are getting slapped onto this or that foreign good like patches on a miner’s trousers. And it is equally honest that the Strip–with all its glass and glitter, does see a pinch when tourists–foreign and domestic–decide to stay home and watch poker on television instead of losing their rent money in person.

But let me declare here, as boldly as a rooster in a henhouse, that tariffs–for all their confusion among news folk–are working. Just as a mule might not understand why you switched trails on the mountain pass, the average person does not always grasp that sometimes you must suffer a higher price on your shrimp cocktail to preserve the dignity of your nation’s economy.

The media–bless their overworked typewriters and underused thinking caps–have made sport of saying tariffs are the end of civilization, just as they once foretold doom when buttons replaced suspenders. But I ask you, are we a country of industry, invention, and independence, or are we a glorified gift shop for foreign imports?

Professor Stephen Miller at UNLV–a man burdened with more degrees than common sense–says that “uncertainty” is the greatest danger. But when has any Nevadan ever had certainty?

It is a state built on blue mud, gold dust poker chips, boomtowns, and busted dreams. If uncertainty were poison, Nevada would’ve perished in the 1860s, yet here she is.

And though Ms. Sulhee Woo of Southern Nevada frets for her family — and rightly so — she ought to remember that a price shift is not the end of the world. It’s the beginning of a new one — where American industries, long strangled by cheap labor and foreign manipulations, can rise again like a bald eagle from the sagebrush.

As for our dear Senator Cortez Masto and State Treasurer Conine, their alarm bells are ringing louder than a saloon piano in a lightning storm. But rather than curse the tariffs, they might do better to teach folks what a tariff is–not some mystical hex cast by a Washington warlock, but a simple lever of commerce used since ancient days, back when the Greeks were still inventing democracy and regrettable pottery.

So yes, visitor numbers may be down 12 percent, and Canadian tourists — polite as they may be — are thinking twice before heading south. But mark my words–the Strip will survive.

The gamblers will return. And Nevada, in all her splendor, from Caliente to Incline Village shall carry on.

There’s more to this state than slot machines and showgirls. There’s the soul of a frontier, the pride of independence, and yes–the stubborn grit to weather any tariff the world dares toss her way.

And if you still don’t understand tariffs, ask a Paiute elder or a cowboy near Battle Mountain. They’ll explain it better than any Ivy League economist ever could and won’t charge admission.

Now, it came to pass in the Silver State, sometime after men forgot the plow and women took to suing for sport, that one Senator Melanie Scheible of Las Vegas—a lady with the chin of conviction and the logic of a spilled chamber pot—rose in righteous fury against a local school sports league.

The reason for her ruffled bonnet? The Nevada Interscholastic Athletic Association said girls’ sports should be exclusively girls.

“Scandalous!” cried she on a local broadcast more solemn than a church funeral. “Appalling!” she said as if someone had tried to serve her mint julep with no mint.

She was offended—mortally so!—that the Association had barred boys who said they were girls from galloping onto the volleyball courts and racetracks with the same thunderous musculature that nature, in its infinite indifference, had awarded them at birth. Miss Scheible’s main contention was that these were “literally children,” a phrase that ought to come with a license, by how she slung it. They were children—but with broad shoulders and five o’clock shadows, some of’em—just trying to find “a safe place” on the girls’ basketball team.

Now you must understand–the NIAA didn’t come to this decision by consulting tea leaves or reading goat entrails. They said it plainly–there are “sex-linked differences in physical development and athletic performance.” In other words, boys can generally throw a ball harder, jump higher, and outrun girls—not because of social pressure, but because of thighs the size of ham hocks and the testosterone galloping through their veins like cavalry.

It seemed not to compute in Senator Scheible’s noggin, which is likely crammed too tight with political slogans and not near enough biology. I reckon she thinks “XX” is just a new brand of feminist beer–and “XY” is a hate crime in algebra.

Worse still, the good senator went on to accuse the board members—the very folks tasked with keeping competition fair—of being fixated on children’s genitals. Lord help us!

When the science goes over your head, sling mud at the motives. That’s the modern way.

She likened the concern to a cabal of joyless men obsessing over soccer teams. Well, Miss Scheible, it ain’t the size of concern that matters—it’s the size of the kid dunking on your daughter in a varsity game that ought to raise your eyebrows.

To her mind, the whole state had gone mad with villainizing “a handful of athletes.” That’s just the kind of arithmetic that got us into this pickle in the first place. You see, a handful of termites is still enough to ruin the house, and one big fella in a wig on a girls’ track team can still take home the ribbon before the others finish stretching.

And let us not forget the Trump factor, which Senator Scheible served up like a bad penny. The policy is tainted by the President and, therefore, inappropriate.

It’s supposed if Mr. Trump were to endorse gravity, she’d start floating.

She also had harsh words for the Lieutenant Governor, one Mr. Stavros Anthony, who had the gall—the gall!—to create a “Task Force to Protect Women’s Sports,” which Miss Scheible found “outside of his job description.” I expect she’ll scold the fire chief for using water.

Now, folks, I ain’t got a dog in this fight. But I reckon there’s a difference between sympathy and silliness, which is to think we can be kind to folks figuring themselves out without pretending the sky is mauve and boys make better girls than girls do.

That’s not compassion—it’s a confusion-made policy.

Miss Scheible, I’m sure, is an earnest woman. But if common sense were hay, she couldn’t feed a grasshopper. In her world, nature is bigoted, fairness is cruelty, and anyone who says otherwise is trying to peer into gym shorts.

But here’s the rub, dear reader–the more we let feelings shout down facts, the closer we come to a time when logic is outlawed–and biology an opinion. And when that day comes, heaven help the girls who just wanted to run, jump, and win on a level field.

Let’s hope Miss Scheible never gets put in charge of the state’s science curriculum, or we’ll get told the moon identifies as a sunlamp.

The citizens of the Silver State, long accustomed to gambling on everything from roulette wheels to wild horses, now find themselves wagering their paychecks on something far riskier–iceberg lettuce.

A new study, courtesy of the good folks at LendingTree–who, bless’em, usually lend money and not farming advice–has declared that Nevada households are spending more on groceries than nearly any godforsaken spot in these United States. We rank fourth in the country, trailing only Utah, Alaska, and Hawaii—places known respectively for salt flats, frostbite, and pineapple plantations.

The average Nevadan now spends over $10,000 a year on groceries, which, for those doing the math at home–and we advise against it, it’s too depressing–is $2,223 more than the national average. And this, in a state where wild sagebrush is free and your neighbor’s dust trail is seen three counties over.

The report also claims Nevadans spend 10.1 percent of their income on food. That’s just behind Idaho’s record-setting 10.4 percent—and we all know potatoes are cheap, so Lord only knows what they’re eating over there. Meanwhile, in the District of Columbia, where politicians subsist mainly on free lunches and lobbyist shrimp cocktails, they spend a mere 4.4 percent.

But let us now turn to the villain in this tale–organic produce. Yes, the very mention of it conjures images of tofu-fed kale and overpriced apples polished by monks.

Organic fruits and veggies cost an average of 52.6 percent more than their humble, pesticide-laden counterparts, say the scholars at LendingTree. Nowhere is the robbery more obvious than iceberg lettuce, which, once a garnish for sad diners and school lunch trays, now commands a 179.3 percent premium if grown without “bad vibes” or conventional farming methods. A head of organic lettuce now fetches $3.38, which is only slightly less than a gallon of gas and, depending on where you’re standing in Nevada, a gallon of water.

And what about apples? Granny Smith, the tart matron of fruit baskets, is feeling herself these days, charging 123.3 percent more if she’s grown organically. A bag of these righteous fruits costs $4.31–enough to make my ol’ Granny roll over in her grave.

Now, a reasonable person might ask–“Isn’t this a food desert?”

A fair question—one tossed around in the manner of limp arugula at a vegan potluck. The term “food desert” sounds tragic until you remember Nevada is an actual desert.

Water is scarce, shade is optional, and growing food here is as easy as milking a cactus. Calling it a “food desert” is like calling the Pacific a “water surplus” or Chicago a “quiet suburb.”

Even the avocados—beloved by Instagrammers and the tragically brunch-obsessed—are staging a financial coup. A large conventional Hass avocado now costs $2.49, up 75.4 percent in one year. Organic avocados, naturally, want in on the action, with some sizes going up nearly 46 percent, because nothing says health like paying extra to smash green butter on your toast.

The price of mixed mini sweet peppers nearly doubled, up 99.6 percent, presumably because each is hand-bathed in unicorn tears. Meanwhile, Gala apples went all diva, with prices rising 50.5 percent for a three-pound bag but falling for the two-pound bag–as if the apples had joined a union and started negotiating in weight classes.

Now, in fairness, some prices have dropped.

Vine-ripe tomatoes fell a glorious 45.6 percent, which makes up for the indignity of iceberg lettuce going full Beverly Hills. But these savings are rarer than rain in Tonopah, and most folks never notice because they’re too busy weeping in the frozen foods aisle.

In conclusion, while Nevada may be dry, dusty, and littered with ghosts of mining towns past, we are now home to a new kind of treasure–the $5 sprout. It ain’t gold, but it sure is shiny at checkout.

So the next time someone starts hollering about “food deserts,” nod and remind them that here in Nevada, we’ve been living in one since 1859—and at least back then, you could grow your lettuce without needing a second mortgage.