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By God, the animals have taken over the zoo. Washington was already halfway to lunacy before the president cracked his knuckles and paused tariffs like a man switching off a lawn sprinkler.

The announcement hit the Ways and Means hearing like a jolt of methadone through a cracked IV line. And there was Rep. Steven Horsford—Democrat from Nevada, flailing and hollering like a prizefighter who walked into the wrong ring—shouting “WTF” into the sacred record like a man who just realized he bet his last nickel on a three-legged horse.

Horsford’s not wrong, mind you. He was loud, furious, a little theatrical—but not wrong. President Trump, that great disrupter, had just lobbed another grenade into the committee chambers from some undisclosed location, probably halfway through a Big Mac.

Ninety days. A pause on tariffs. No details. No memo. No plan. Just a tweet. Business as usual.

“Who’s in charge?” Horsford demanded, staring down Jamieson Greer, the Prez’s Trade Rep. Greer said he had not spoken to the president, and that’s when Horsford smelled blood. “WTF, who’s in charge?” he repeated, louder this time, for the benefit of anyone still sober in the back row.

It isn’t some quaint parlor spat between gentlemen sipping mineral water and debating tax code nuances. It’s the knife fight you get when a real estate mogul-turned-president governs by Twitter while Congress pretends it’s still running the Republic.

The Democrats aren’t mad about the policy—they’re angry that Trump outfoxed them again with a six-word tweet and a shrug. That’s the game.

Horsford banged on about small businesses, about steel, about aluminum. “Amateur hour,” he called it.

And he’s not wrong again—but don’t mistake outrage for wisdom. These are the same people who sat on their hands while half the Rust Belt rusted straight into the opioid abyss. Now tariffs are either salvation or damnation, depending on whose donors are in the room.

Then came the finger-wagging about Republicans not showing up. Smith from Missouri shot back like a Baptist school principal with a ruler: There are more Republicans than Democrats in the room right now, he said, with the wounded pride of a man forced to count noses in public.

Red-faced and righteous, Horsford asked for a colloquy—an old-school gentleman’s duel in the verbal arena. Smith denied him like a bouncer turning away a drunk.

Horsford seethed–tried again. “I asked if you would yield,” he snapped.

The desert air crackled with raw defiance as Nevada Governor Joe Lombardo let loose a verbal Molotov cocktail at a private Lincoln Day Dinner. Caught on tape by the sneering jackals at Meidas Touch—those self-righteous left-wing vultures who’d sell their grandmother for a viral hit—Lombardo didn’t mince words.

“All the individuals on social media, they’re talking bad about all of us, in particular me,” he growled, pausing for effect. “And my message to them is, ‘F*** you.’”

The leaked audio, a trio of jagged-edged rants, didn’t stop there. Lombardo turned his sights on the “Hands Off” protests that swarmed Carson City like locusts, a howling mob raging against the Trump machine.

“Paid by the Democratic Party,” he sneered, dismissing the thousands who clogged the streets as hired guns, not patriots. “That momentum, those crowd sizes—it ain’t because they’re pissed. It’s because they’re getting paid.”

And then the kicker, a jab at the Dems’ core. “Their strategy is [to] stay at home, hands out, waiting for Uncle Sam to drop a welfare check.” It hits like a sledgehammer—crude, unapologetic, and dead-on.

Lombardo’s camp, cornered by a sycophant press corps, offered a curt “no comment,” the political equivalent of a middle finger. Good for them.

They’re brawler, not a groveler, and not about to let some pinko website dictate the tone. It is Nevada, after all—a land of hardscrabble ranchers and casino kings, not limp-wristed coastal elites clutching their weenies.

Meanwhile, down in Mesquite, City Manager Edward “Owen” Dickie stepped into a different kind of buzzsaw, one of his own making. Another leaked recording–a private chat with ex-Police Chief Maquade Chesley has the locals baying for blood.

Dickie, who axed Chesley back in January for insubordination—think threats and cop-shop chaos—got caught musing about replacing him with “the biggest Black Aunt Jemima” from Louisiana’s back parishes to “whip you guys into shape.”

The words landed like a live grenade in a woke minefield, and now Dickie’s scrambling to explain himself.

“This was retaliation,” he insisted, pointing the finger at Chesley, the disgruntled ex-chief he sent packing. “It was just between him and I.”

Dickie’s backpedaling is a sight to behold. “What I meant was, maybe I’d go down south and get a strong Black woman to straighten these boys out,” he clarified–like it softened the blow. “I can’t believe I said ‘Aunt Jemima type.’ I’d never say that in public.”

Too late, pal—the tape’s out, and the Nevada media’s smelling blood.

Dickie fessed up to HR, bracing for a reprimand from the city council. “The gist was, maybe the department needs diversity,” he muttered.

He’s a man who forgot the cardinal rule–In a world of hidden mics and vengeful ghosts, you either own your words, or they own you. The Democrats taught us that much—never apologize, never retreat.

Dickie’s learning the hard way while Lombardo’s up in Carson City laughing at the chaos. Two men, two tapes, one lesson–In 2025’s Nevada, the truth still cuts better than the lies—but don’t expect it to be pretty.

Las Vegas, that neon-lit Sodom of the desert, is about to get a jolt of crimson from the Far East. A few months from now, the University of Nevada, Las Vegas—UNLV to the locals—will toss open the doors to its Sands Institute for Chinese Language and Culture, a shiny new toy straight out of the People’s Republic playbook.

The man in charge, Chris Heavey, can hardly contain his glee. “Philosophy and history!” he crows, like a carny barking up the latest sideshow. “New programs for the kids to sink their teeth into!”

Heavey’s got a point, though, if you squint hard enough. Vegas and China? Thick as thieves. The tourists swarm in from Beijing and Shanghai, flashing cash and filling the slots–while the convention racket hums along on the backs of Sino-American handshakes.

They’ve already kicked off–with free Mandarin classes—gratis, no less—like a cultural soup kitchen. “Conversational Mandarin!” Heavey bellows, grinning like a man who sold you a timeshare. A week in, and the suckers are already lining up.

The real kicker? They’re shipping the bright-eyed undergrads straight to the motherland. Study abroad, they call it—dunking the kids headfirst into the steaming wok of Communist China. UNLV’s faculty, bless their tenured souls, spent two summers traipsing around the Middle Kingdom, hobnobbing with the Reds and laying the groundwork. Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou—a big-time research joint—is the headliner, the lead partner in this little dance. It’s all academic, they swear, but you can smell the yuan from here.

Jenny Koo, queen bee of Nevada’s Chinese Association, is practically vibrating with pride. “Rich heritage!” she declares, waving her arms like she’s conducting an orchestra of ancient ghosts. She’s got visions of tea bowls—800, 1,000 years old—dazzling the Rubes–who thought Chinese culture was just dragons and dumplings.

Koo’s licking her chops. “Economics! Business!” she chants. A bridge–she says—a bridge for the tourists, the community, and maybe a few fat trade deals while we’re at it.

The whole shebang’s landing at UNLV’s Maryland admin building, right where Flamingo Road and Maryland Parkway collide. And who’s footing the bill? The Las Vegas Sands, naturally, coughing up a cool $15 million to keep the lights on and the incense burning. It’s a slick move—capitalism with a side of CCP Confucianism, served hot and fast in the desert sun.

So here we are, folks: the red dragon’s clawing its way into the American West, one free language class at a time. Heavey and Koo are all smiles, the students packing their bags, and the Sands counting its chips.

Me? I’ll be watching from the sidelines, sipping something, while wondering how long it takes for the culture to curdle. It’s Vegas, after all, where everything’s a gamble.

A wild, dusty outpost where the neon burns bright, and the law squats heavy like a vulture on a wire. Valentine’s Day 2025, and the Washoe County Jail’s got a new VIP in its iron grip–Ronaldo Ayala, a Mexican mafia honcho with a rap sheet that reads like a Quentin Tarantino script on mescaline. It ain’t no love story, folks—this is a tale of blood, betrayal, and a man who once played guardian angel to the devil himself, El Chapo.

The Sheriff’s Office, tight-lipped as a clam on a dry riverbed, confirmed they’re in cahoots with the U.S. Marshals. But why is Ayala cooling his heels in Washoe County? That’s a secret locked tighter than a Vegas safe.

All we’ve got is the raw data–booked on February 14th–a twisted Valentine for a guy who’s no stranger to the dark side of power.

Flashback to ’89—San Diego. Ayala, already a name whispered in the shadows, gets the death sentence slapped on him for turning three men into worm food.

Fast-forward to January 2025, and the feds drop a fresh indictment like a Molotov cocktail–racketeering, dope-slinging, and a cozy little alliance with the Sinaloa Cartel. Word is–he was El Chapo’s shield, a brutal enforcer keeping the cartel kingpin one step ahead of the reaper. From San Quentin’s grim corridors to another California death row, Ayala’s been bouncing through the system like a pinball on a hot streak—until now.

What’s he doing in Reno? Nobody’s talking, but the air’s thick with the stench of something big.

The Washoe County Jail’s a concrete beast, with Ayala, its latest captive predator, pacing the cage. Is this a pit stop on the road to justice, or just another chapter in a saga already soaked in enough blood to turn the Truckee River red?

The U.S. Marshals know, the Sheriff knows, but they’re not spilling the beans to us, ink-stained wretches. So here we sit, in the howling void of the high desert, waiting for the next savage twist in this carnival of chaos.

Editor’s Note: Tried something different yesterday, should’ve known better. Like licking a cactus because someone said it might taste like tequila. The whole damn thing collapsed into itself like a flan in a cupboard. Tougher to read than a mescaline-fueled roadmap scribbled by a blind cartographer.

Got the message, though. Loud and clear. Like a telegram from Hell delivered by a drunk gorilla in a tutu. “STOP. YOU FUCKED UP. STOP.”

And so—repenting in the Church of the Holy Single-Subject Article we kneel.

No more tap-dancing across topics like a one-person freak show on speed. From now on, it’s one article, one wild-eyed beast per page. Saddle it, ride it, shoot it if it bucks too hard—but don’t try to juggle three while blindfolded in a wind tunnel.

The chaos experiment has concluded. Results: catastrophic.

Lesson learned. Now, on with the show.

Listen up and witness the gospel of Donald J. Trump, the last bastion of American grit, tearing through the festering muck of globalist cowardice.

The markets? A wild, beautiful beast—whipped into a frenzy by the Don’s tariff genius, a rollercoaster only a madman with balls of steel could ride. Trump proved he’s the only one with the guts to stare down the world and make it blink, and if you don’t see that, you’re just another soy-sucking loser licking the boots of Wall Street’s weepy elites.

It kicked off with a masterstroke—Trump, that glorious orange bastard, slammed the brakes on his “reciprocal” tariffs (11 percent-50 percent on the whining leeches of the world), dropping ‘em to a lean, mean 10 percent universal rate. Except for China—those commie son-of-a-bitches got slapped with a 125 percent haymaker, a move so bold it’d make Reagan blush. It came after his April 2 tariff barrage had the S&P 500 trembling near bear territory, down 11.2 percent from its February peak.

Here’s the payoff: markets roared like a pack of rabid wolves. The Dow blasted up 2,963 points—7.87 percent—a red-white-and-blue rocket ride. The S&P 500 notched its best day since ’08 at 9.52 percent, and the Nasdaq, God bless its tech-soaked heart, soared 12.16 percent, its second-best ever. Tesla spiked 22.69 percent, United Airlines 26.14 percent—damn near every S&P 500 stock bathed in green. It’s Trump’s America—a historic rally, a middle finger to the globalist scum who’d sell us out to Beijing for a wooden nickel.

Thursday? Sure, the weak-kneed suits got spooked when the White House upped China’s tariff to 145 percent—adding to prior duties like a cherry on a patriot’s sundae. The Dow shed 2,000 points–five percent– S&P 5.9 percent, Nasdaq 6.9 percent.

Big deal—wiped out yesterday’s gains? Cry me a river, you spineless quislings. That’s just the cost of keeping America first.

The S&P’s still 3.7 percent off its April 2 close, and the Goldman Sachs and JPMorgan eggheads are bleating “50-60 percent recession odds” over the 10 percent tariffs and 25 percent auto-steel duties. Let ‘em quake—Trump’s got the wheel, steering us through the storm while they clutch their asses.

Globally, the weaklings scrambled—Japan’s Nikkei dropped four percent then clawed back 9nine percent, and Europe’s STOXX 600 gained four percent after the EU paused its $23 billion tantrum. They’re all dancing to Trump’s tune, whether they like it or not.

And the Don’s not stopping there—he’s slashing $1 billion from Cornell and $790 million from Northwestern, purging the ivory tower of its woke rot over its 2024 Israel-Hamas protest nonsense. “Civil rights violations,” they call it—bullshit–it’s about making academia bend the knee to the MAGA gospel. Cornell’s whining about 75 Defense projects, Northwestern’s crying over its little pacemaker.

Tough luck–snowflakes—Trump’s building a leaner, meaner America.

On the overdraft front, the House—God bless those 217 patriots—voted 217-211 to axe Biden’s pansy-ass $5 fee cap, a giveaway that’d save the moocher class $5 billion a year. Banks like JPMorgan and Wells Fargo, raking in billions from honest $35 fees, deserve to thrive—not coddle deadbeats. Trump and the GOP know it keeps the system humming while the consumer sob sisters wail for the “vulnerable.”

Vulnerable, my ass—pay your bills, freeloaders.

Thursday’s dip? Insider trading whispers? Let the SEC chase ghosts—Trump’s “BE COOL!” Truth Social edict and tariff swagger are too big for the small-minded to handle.

The Don’s coal push—exempting plants, opening federal lands—is a middle finger to the green weenies, fueling AI and EVs with real American power, not their unicorn fart–coal’s 16 percent of juice now, down from 45 percent in 2010. And he’s freeing up showerheads from Biden’s drip-drip tyranny—pure freedom, baby.

Oil’s under $60, the dollar’s low, bonds at 4.3 percent, VIX at 33—markets are jittery, sure, but Bill Ackman’s right: Trump’s pause was “brilliant.” Delta’s dumping 2025 forecasts? Let the weak fold. China’s 84 percent retaliation and WTO whining won’t faze the Don; he’s got Bessent teeing up talks with 70 countries.

The coming 90 days? Trump has this—recession fears are for cowards, and global stability is overrated when you’re the king of the heap.

So there it is, you ungrateful swine—Trump’s tariff pivot lit a fire under the markets, took a hit, and kept on swinging. He’s gutting woke universities, saving banks, and riding volatility like a bronco. The Don’s the hero here, a grizzled warrior in a world of simpering fools.

Ninety days to glory—hail to the chief–or get out of his way.

Nineteen-seventy-four, Shel wrote,
Of sidewalk’s end, a curious note,
Chalky paths that puzzled folks back then,
Now stretch on with arrows drawn by pen.

Fifty years have passed, and here we stand.
Gazing where the white lines sweep the land,
Peppermint winds blow soft and so slow,
Kids once walked, dreams that seemed to grow.

Look—a sign now halts the winding way,
“Sidewalk Closed,” it shouts in bold dismay.
Adults pause, confused, their minds askew,
What they knew as kids, no longer true.

The path’s not gone, just barred from our sight,
Chalk and breeze still whisper through the night,
Shel’s old tale lives on in strange new hue,
Sidewalks shift, and wonder shifts there too.

Some fifty years back, when I was a sprightly lad of fourteen, I chanced upon the short yarn “A Cure for the Blues,” penned by none other than that old river rat, Mark Twain. Back then, I reckoned it a senseless waste of a good afternoon—nothing more’n a tangle of words that didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

Well, sir, the years have a way of pilin’ up like driftwood on the Klamath River, and ain’t it a marvel how they shift a fella’s perspective?

Just a few ticks of the clock ago, I sat myself down and gave that tale another go-round—my first since that long-gone day. Senseless? Like hell, it is!

This evenin’, that story cracked open my eyes like a lantern in the fog, showin’ me the lay of the land in Twain’s time—how folks scribbled and jawed for a livin’—and, by thunder, how snug it fits over the literary and journalistic doin’s of this weary old world today.

It is, I reckon, a queer thing to say, but precious little’s changed, save the earth’s grown a mite older and a touch more tuckered out. Yet here I sit, my spirit kickin’ up its heels, feelin’ as seasoned and wise as that ol’ white-haired sage, Mark Twain hisself.

Ain’t that a notion to get a man grinning and give him a restful night of sleep?

China Throws a Tantrum

Well, color me shocked—China’s stomping its feet again because someone dared to push back. After President Trump finally slapped Beijing with the kind of tariffs that make actual noise—104 percent, not the mealy-mouthed “targeted levies” you get from the usual Beltway jellyfish—China did what it always does when it’s not getting its way: it threw a bureaucratic hissy fit, filed a WTO complaint (because globalist paper-pushers matter so much), and ratcheted up tariffs on American goods to 84 percent.

Let’s get down to brass tacks here: it isn’t diplomacy. It is hostage-taking, and the U.S. keeps handing over the ransom. China’s latest stunt includes adding 11 American companies to their “unreliable entities” list—because if anyone knows about unreliability, it’s a regime that still thinks “mutual respect” means “do what we say or else.” And, of course, rare earth mineral controls—because nothing says “responsible superpower” like throttling the supply chain to show who’s boss.

They’re even pretending they care about WTO rules. Cute. This, from the country that practically invented intellectual property theft and industrial espionage, whining about Phase 1 violations and the potential TikTok ban like it’s a moral outrage. Give me a break. If TikTok were a U.S. company hoovering Chinese youth data and beaming it to Langley, Beijing would’ve buried it six feet under a firewall years ago.

Meanwhile, here at home, the experts are clutching their pearls about inflation and recession as if we haven’t already been sold out to China for the last three decades by Wall Street and Washington’s bipartisan Chamber of Commerce fan club. Sure, tariffs might raise prices, but maybe it’s time Americans realized cheap toaster ovens and $5 t-shirts come at the cost of national security and dignity. If you want to be a serious country, you make things. You don’t outsource your backbone to a Communist dictatorship and cry about the consequences when you finally try to regrow a spine.

And don’t go thinking ByteDance is going to play ball, either. They’ve made it clear: no TikTok sale unless they get the whole enchilada—i.e., trade concessions, face-saving photo ops, and the U.S. on its knees. Trump gave them 75 more days to twist the knife a bit. But let’s not kid ourselves: these people don’t respect “equal treatment,” they respect power. And we’d better stop apologizing for using it.

Cortez Masto Continues to Gum Up the Works

Oh great, here we go again—Senator Catherine Cortez Masto is back with her Ruby Mountains Protection Act because Nevada doesn’t have enough federally protected land on the map. Heaven forbid we touch a square inch of soil if there’s even the slightest whiff of hydrocarbons under it.

The Ruby Mountains, mind you, are already part of a national forest and adjacent to a wildlife refuge, but that’s not enough. Now she wants to preemptively shut down any chance of oil and gas development in 450,000 acres of Nevada wilderness—because, you know, tourism might get a hangnail.

Meanwhile, in a rare stroke of common sense, the Bureau of Land Management greenlit the Pinyon Pipeline—a 16-mile, 24-inch-wide line to get natural gas from the Ruby Pipeline to the Valmy Power Plant. And guess what? The environmental review—yes, the very one the eco-zealots usually clutch their hemp necklaces over—found no significant impact. Shocking. Burying a pipe underground between two existing energy hubs without causing the Earth to implode. Imagine that.

The pipeline supports converting the North Valmy station from coal to natural gas. You’d think the green crowd would be celebrating—we’re making energy cleaner and more efficient. But no, we can’t have that. Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen are too busy whining about what a few tourists might think if someone dares put up a drill rig a hundred miles from the nearest Starbucks.

And as if that weren’t enough, Cortez Masto is also moonlighting as the self-appointed savior of Venezuela, dragging 18 other senators into her latest performative plea to bring back Temporary Protected Status for Venezuelans. Because when the U.S. is groaning under a broken immigration system, and cities are drowning in budget deficits, clearly what we need is to extend TPS another 18 months for people who, and let’s be honest, aren’t going anywhere anyway. She wants the Trump administration—through Secretaries Marco Rubio and Kristi Noem, no less—to reverse a decision and pretend the Maduro regime is somehow less dangerous today than it’s been for the last decade.

Let’s call this what it is: political theater, plain and simple. Cortez Masto doesn’t care about gas pipelines, the Ruby Mountains, or even the Venezuelan people. She cares about looking good on MSNBC and fundraising off woke donors who think a solar panel on a shack counts as saving the planet.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck paying $4 for gas, $300 for power bills, and listening to sermons about “climate justice” from people who couldn’t change a tire if their lives depended on it.

Lombardo Cracks Down While Democrats Keep Hiring Bureaucrats and Dodging Voters

Governor Joe Lombardo has dropped the Nevada Safe Streets and Neighborhoods Act—a much-needed reality check for the state’s spiraling crime problem. He stood shoulder to shoulder with law enforcement officials (you know, people who deal with criminals, not tweet about them) and laid out a plan to hit repeat offenders and fentanyl traffickers where it hurts: prison, for a long time.

The bill dares to lower the threshold for felony theft from $1,200 to $750—because, believe it or not, stealing a flat-screen shouldn’t be a slap on the wrist. It introduces mandatory minimums for fentanyl dealing–starting at 28 grams–and finally tells the hug-a-thug crowd that diversion programs aren’t for predators who target kids and old folk. It also tosses in long-overdue reforms to DUI, domestic violence, stalking, and bail policies while restoring a judge’s ability to peek at sealed records when someone’s trying to buy a gun. Shocking, right? Using common sense?

Of course, the ACLU of Nevada is crying about a $42 million prison cost like it’s a war crime. Here’s a thought: maybe it’s more expensive letting junkies and repeat thieves roam free. If the prisons are short-staffed, hire more staff. That’s what states are for—serving citizens, not coddling criminals.

We could also follow the laws already in the books, but that wouldn’t cost more money, and we can’t have that.

But don’t worry, while Lombardo tries to keep your family from being carjacked, Democrats are doing their part, too, by creating more state jobs for out-of-work federal paper-pushers. Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager’s AB547 is a handout to every pink-slipped bureaucrat who used to shuffle memos at the VA or USPS. His “bold” idea? Let them skip the bachelor’s degree requirement and count their federal desk-jockeying as state experience, making it a jobs program for the alphabet soup crowd.

Meanwhile, Senate Bill 309 would make getting away with being a drugged-up menace behind the wheel harder. It drops the DUI threshold to 0.16 instead of 0.18, ups the fines, and tweaks the penalties for marijuana users—because if there’s one thing we need, it’s more reasons for the stoned-and-proud crowd to whine on Reddit.

And, let’s not forget Assembly Bill 530, which quietly rips power away from voters in Clark County by handing fuel tax decisions to the County Commission. Why let the public vote when you can raise taxes behind closed doors and call it “infrastructure investment.”

So, to sum up–Lombardo wants to lock up drug dealers, protect victims, and restore sanity to the justice system. Democrats want to hire ex-feds, loosen job requirements, raise taxes without asking you, and act surprised when crime doesn’t magically go away.

But hey, at least the paperwork will get filed faster.

Unions Buy the Legislature, Democrats Send the Receipt

Well, mark no one surprised—Big Labor dropped over $1.6 million on Nevada legislators during the 2024 election cycle, essentially buying themselves a reserved seat at the policymaking table. Yes, the unions are back with their wallets wide open, flooding Carson City with cash for their pet projects—like paid time off for everyone but the taxpayers footing the bill—get fast-tracked while the rest of us are left holding the tab.

Over 90% of that sweet, sweet union money went straight into Democrat pockets because nothing says “working-class hero,” like cutting deals in a backroom funded by the IBEW and AFSCME. The median donation to Democratic legislators was $25,800—chump change if you’re a union boss, but enough to turn your average Assembly member into a full-time lobbyist for the Brotherhood of Eternal Sick Days. Meanwhile, Republicans got a few scraps—just $6,500 on average—which tells you all you need to know about who’s playing ball and who’s to watch from the bleachers.

Top earners were the usual suspects: Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro and Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager, each clocking over $100,000 in union “love.” But hey, I’m sure that’s not influencing any policy decisions. Nope, they just happened to care about film tax credits, permanent paid leave, and giving casino janitors more legal leverage than a small business owner trying to make payroll.

Special shoutout to Assemblywoman Linda Hunt, who made fourth place thanks to the Unite Here machine, the same group that wants to dictate cleaning schedules in private hotels as if every spilled cocktail is a constitutional crisis.

Despite backing a legislative slate with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, unions are crying crocodile tears because Governor Lombardo isn’t rolling over on every last demand—like forcing hotel owners to triple their cleaning crews or repealing Nevada’s lottery ban, which the gaming industry (read: their real bosses) isn’t thrilled about. Still, labor leaders say they’re “optimistic,” which is code for “we already paid for this legislation, now deliver.”

So, here’s your Nevada civics lesson for 2025: Labor unions write the checks, Democrats write the laws, and the rest of us write the checks to cover the fallout. Welcome to government by grievance, powered by overtime pay and taxpayer-funded political theater.

Ninth Circuit Bends Over Backward to Protect Bureaucrats from Hurt Feelings

In today’s episode of “The Constitution Is Optional,” the U.S. Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals—also known as California’s judicial daycare—unanimously tossed out a challenge to Nevada’s Election Worker Protection Act (SB406), a law so vague it makes it a felony to offend someone wearing a lanyard at your local gymnasium polling place.

Passed in 2023 with all the subtlety of a Soviet speech code, the law makes “harassment” or “intimidation” of election workers a crime punishable by up to four years in prison—because God forbid someone raises their voice when asking why their mail-in ballot magically turned into a provisional one.

The lawsuit, brought by a few brave (or possibly masochistic) former poll observers—including conservative donor Robert Beadles, who didn’t get the memo that free speech ends where bureaucratic feelings begin—argued that the law’s wording is so vague it criminalizes standing too close to a folding table. And they weren’t wrong. The law never really defines what counts as “intimidation” or even who exactly is an “election worker.” Is it the guy setting up cones outside the high school? Is it the volunteer refilling pens? Don’t ask too many questions—you might be a felon now.

As expected, the Ninth Circuit upheld the original dismissal, saying the plaintiffs had “no credible injury.” Translation: You ain’t arrested yet, so quit whining about the handcuffs waiting in the wings. According to this logic, a law could criminalize making eye contact with a ballot box, and it’d still be fine—as long as no one’s cuffed for it yet.

Naturally, Nevada’s Secretary of State’s Office is thrilled, calling the ruling a win for “democracy,” because nothing screams democratic values like turning citizens into criminals for observing an election with the wrong facial expression. The plaintiffs’ only remaining move is to appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court, assuming they can squeeze in a hearing between all the times the left screams about “threats to democracy” while actively criminalizing transparency.

So here we are: Speak too loudly at a polling place? That’s four years.

Burn a flag in the street? That’s performance art.

Welcome to Nevada, where feelings get a vote, and rights are redacted.

Feds Pull Plug on LGBTQ+ Alzheimer’s Grievance Studies—Academia Screeches in Mourning

Well, it finally happened—the federal government did something right for a change. UNLV’s very own activist-in-a-lab-coat, Professor Jason Flatt, just had his nearly $5 million taxpayer-funded pity party shut down by the National Institutes of Health, and he’s not taking it well. Flatt’s research into Alzheimer’s and the LGBTQ+ community—because dementia now has a sexual orientation—was deemed no longer a priority under the Trump administration. Cue the dramatic chest-clutching.

Flatt’s entire operation—years in the making—revolved around the idea that gay and transgender people with dementia need a different kind of science because, of course, the human brain works differently if your pronouns change with the weather. His research focused on “chosen families,” historical trauma, and—you guessed it—how being queer increases your risk of Alzheimer’s.

It’s less medical science and more sociology wrapped in a rainbow flag.

Despite receiving perfect scores from “scientific reviewers,” (read: peer reviewers probably more interested in being politically correct than medically accurate), the NIH and the Department of Defense finally got tired of playing along. They yanked two big-ticket grants—$3.5 million for caregiver sob stories and $1.4 million for LGBTQ+ veterans with dementia because nothing screams “national defense” like drag brunch support groups at memory care facilities.

Now, Flatt’s team of seven graduate assistants—probably all eagerly publishing “research” with footnotes from Tumblr—are out of work, and UNLV’s School of Public Health is scrambling for sympathy and private funding, which won’t come because no sane investor throws millions into a “queer memory project.”

Of course, Attorney General Aaron Ford jumped into action, filing a lawsuit claiming the cuts were “illegal.” Right—because if there’s one thing the Constitution guarantees, it’s federal funding for niche identity politics masquerading as health research. Activist groups like Silver State Equality are already howling that we’ve set LGBTQ+ health research back “years.” Maybe we’ve just stopped pretending that every grant application with a rainbow sticker deserves a blank check.

So now, Flatt’s “vital” work is stalled, the ivory tower’s sad, and taxpayers get a break for once. Because here’s the truth: dementia doesn’t care who you date, what pronouns you use, or which activist box you check. It’s a medical condition, not a social identity.

Maybe now we can go back to funding research based on biology—not ideology.

Watchdog Group Launches, Leftists Lose It Over Pickup Trucks and Accountability

Hell must’ve frozen over because Nevada just got something needed for decades: a watchdog with teeth. Enter DOGE NEVADA, a new third-party organization hell-bent on exposing waste, fraud, and abuse in the state’s bloated, mismanaged bureaucracy. Naturally, every grifter and paper-pushing parasite from Carson City to Clark County is probably sweating through their government-issued ergonomic desk chairs.

Brandon Davis, the group’s president, had the nerve to say that the public doesn’t trust government clowns to spend their money wisely. Shocking, right? The guy even called out the Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation (DETR)—that shining temple of incompetence where Nevada tax dollars go to die.

Sheriff Kevin McMahill is urging DOGE to look, which tells you how bad things must be. When law enforcement says, “Please come clean up this mess,” you know the rot is genuine.

DOGE NEVADA plans to expand statewide and asks regular folks to blow the whistle on corruption via its website. Of course, expect bureaucrats and union reps to scream “witch hunt” any minute now because God forbid someone question their sacred ability to waste your money with impunity.

Now, shifting gears from public corruption to public lunacy—Cybertruck owners are under attack in Las Vegas, apparently because Elon Musk gives left-wing crybabies a rash. Christopher George, just a regular dude who bought a Tesla truck, woke up to the word “Nazi” and a swastika carved into the side of it. Classy. He just wanted to drive his spaceship-on-wheels in peace. But no, the woke mob decided scratching up his $100K ride was the answer to all their grief and tech daddy issues.

And he’s not alone. Another Cybertruck couple got aggressively tailgated, swerved at, screamed at, and racially harassed—all because they had the gall to own a futuristic pickup. What’s coming next, brick-throwing book clubs for Prius drivers who talk to Republicans?

It’s funny how the same crowd screeching about “tolerance” will vandalize your car and try to run you off the road because they don’t like who made it. These people think they’re fighting fascism with tire irons and spray paint. Newsflash: if you’re carving swastikas into vehicles because someone bought a product from a guy you don’t like, you’re not the good guy in this story.

So, to recap: DOGE NEVADA wants to expose fraud, and suddenly, half the state looks nervous. Meanwhile, Cybertruck drivers are becoming the new lepers in Woketopia. Welcome to Nevada in 2025—where truth is a threat, and a truck is a hate crime.

Paging Dr. Dolittle, Gone Missing

In today’s episode of “What the Hell Is Wrong with People?”, Las Vegas veterinarian Dr. Shawn Frehner pulled a Houdini after being caught on camera kicking a sedated horse during a procedure in Pahrump. That’s right—not just a horse, but a sedated one, meaning this tough guy picked a fight with a 1,200-pound animal that couldn’t even swat a fly.

The video, recorded by the horse’s owner, Shawna Gonzalez, quickly made the rounds. She says the abuse was so disturbing she had a seizure on the spot—because watching your vet treat your animal like a punching bag will do that.

Meanwhile, Frehner defended himself with the medical equivalent of, “I was just helping”—claiming he was “stimulating” the horse’s breathing. Uh-huh. And I suppose the next time you throw someone down the stairs, it’ll be to test their reflexes?

And this isn’t just a one-off.

There’s a whole barn full of complaints against Frehner, stretching back to prior disciplinary action for sloppy paperwork and improper drug handling. In other words, this guy has been riding the edge of professionalism for a while, and now the wheels have finally come off.

The Nevada Veterinary Board, in classic government form, is “aware” of the situation but can’t comment—because God forbid anyone take a public stand on an issue that involves kicking animals. Frehner, meanwhile, has disappeared like a guilty ex-boyfriend who “just needs time to think.” Multiple agencies are looking for him, which is nice, but don’t hold your breath. If he’s got half a brain, he’s gone to Idaho with a fake mustache and a burner phone.

Let’s be honest: anyone else caught kicking a drugged animal would be in handcuffs faster than you can say ‘PETA fundraiser,’ but since this guy has “Dr.” in front of his name, we’re all supposed to wait for “the process.” Screw that. Charge him, yank his license, and let him explain “stimulating breathing” to a judge with a low tolerance for bullshit.

Bottom line: a horse got kicked while unconscious, the guy responsible bolted, and everyone’s acting like this is some philosophical gray area. It’s not. It’s just cowardice in a white coat.

Storey County Deputy Nailed for Jailhouse Romp

Well, well, well—another cop taken down not for corruption, brutality, or excessive force but for sex. On April 6, 2025, Ian Alexander Nelson, a deputy at the Storey County Detention Facility, was fired and slapped with a sexual assault charge after allegedly getting too cozy with a female inmate. The whole thing blew open after an 11:15 p.m. report on April 5, prompting a lightning-fast investigation and a $100,000 bail.

Now, let’s ask the question nobody wants to touch with a ten-foot pole in today’s sanitized, outrage-obsessed society: was the sex consensual?

Because here’s the thing—if it was, then we’re not talking about assault. We’re talking about poor judgment, not a felony. Dumb, inappropriate, against department policy? Sure.

But let’s not pretend like this guy held someone down while she screamed. Because if this comes down to “he shouldn’t have done that because of the power dynamic,” but no actual force or coercion, then congratulations—you’ve just criminalized consensual sex with a moral purity test.

Let’s be honest: inmates aren’t saints, and deputies aren’t priests. It isn’t the first time something “inappropriate” happened behind bars, and it won’t be the last. But if a consenting adult decided she wanted to hook up with a deputy, do we need to call in the SWAT team and ruin a man’s life over it? Or was it only a problem after she had second thoughts—or saw an opportunity?

Meanwhile, just down the hill in Lyon County, we’ve got a pack of storage unit burglars ransacking half the county, pawning loot in Sparks, and facing charges for real crimes. Four men—Jerady Smith, Joseph Davis, Christian Cox, and Lawrence Grimes—were picked up for everything from grand larceny to drug possession to gun charges. Yeah, actual felonies, actual victims, and no doubt about it.

So let me get this straight: burglars caught with stolen goods and illegal weapons get quietly booked and shuffled into the jail system, but a deputy who may or may not have had consensual sex gets publicly crucified like Jeffrey Dahmer. Priorities, anyone?

We’ll see how this shakes out. If Nelson forced himself on someone, throw the book at him. But if this turns out to be a case of post-coital regret dressed up as felony assault, then this isn’t justice—it’s witch-hunting.

The wind kicked up dust along the old wagon road, twisting and turning like a serpent in the Nevada hills. It was a road with a long memory, where time folded in on itself and ghosts of the past walked unseen beside the living.

Geiger Grade, they called it now, but back in the old days, it was just another stretch of danger between the Truckee Meadows and Virginia City. During those years, before the iron rails bound the country together, Nevada was still young and wild.

Money was scarce, the law was thin, and the land was ruled not by the government but by those having the will and the guns to hold it. Roads were built by private hands and financed with tolls, and in 1861, a man named Dr. Davidson Geiger, along with John Tilton, won the right to carve a path through the mountains

Two years of backbreaking labor saw the first teams make their way up the grade in 1863, their wheels cutting deep into the rock and dirt, leaving scars that still showed as the decades passed. The road was treacherous, a winding, narrow trail where wagons slowed to a crawl at the worst of the curves.

That made it a ripe hunting ground for men of a questionable trade: highwaymen, bushwhackers, and thieves—men who let others find wealth only to take it at the business end of a shotgun. Charles Boles—Black Bart to the papers—wasn’t like the others.

He was a gentleman robber with a poet’s soul and a bandit’s heart. He rode no horse, left no tracks, and struck with the cunning of a mountain cat. He robbed Wells Fargo coaches with an eerie calm, never spilling blood, slipping away into the wilderness before the law could catch their breath.

For years, he worked the stage routes of California and Oregon, always a step ahead, until the day his luck ran out. One forgotten handkerchief, a careless mistake—caught, sentenced, and sent to San Quentin.

But in 1888, when the prison gates opened, and he walked free, Black Bart did what legends do. He disappeared.

Some say he went south, vanishing into the wild places of Mexico. Others claimed he became a shopkeeper, living out his days in quiet obscurity.

But some think otherwise, who whispered that he had returned to the only thing he had ever known. He had traveled east to Nevada to try his luck one last time.

On a cold afternoon that same year, a stagecoach wound its way down Geiger Grade, driver wary, the shotgun rider gripping his weapon tight. The land was still dangerous, and no man who carried gold felt safe.

Then, as the coach rounded a sharp bend, he came. A lone figure stepping from the brush, face hidden beneath a flour-sack mask, the twin barrels of a shotgun leveled at the team.

“Throw down the box,” the figure commanded, voice steady as ever.

But the driver had heard the stories. He had studied the old ways and learned from the mistakes of others.

With a flash of motion, he raised his gun, and before the bandit could react, the air cracked with gunfire. The masked figure jerked back, his weapon slipping from lifeless hands as he tumbled to the dirt.

They found little on him. Not his name, no papers, only a weathered coat and boots worn thin from miles on foot.

The sheriff sent word to Wells Fargo, but no one came to claim the body. And so, in an unmarked grave somewhere along the old grade, a nameless outlaw was laid to rest.

Maybe it was Black Bart. Perhaps it was just another desperate soul trying to snatch one last piece of gold before the world passed him by.

The truth was lost, buried beneath years and dust. But on quiet nights, when the wind twists through the canyons and the road glows pale beneath the moon, travelers swear they hear footsteps in the brush, a whisper of movement where no man should be, warning, perhaps, or a final echo of the gentleman bandit’s last holdup.

The past lingers in the hills of Nevada, and the old road never forgets.

If the good Lord sees fit to shake the earth beneath Virginia City sometime soon, St. Mary in the Mountains might tumble down the hill like a wheel of cheddar from a drunken festival, and it won’t be His fault—it’ll be ours.

St. Mary, the grand old Catholic church perched like a watchful aunt on E Street, has bricks crumbling faster than a card cheat caught mid-deal. Cracks in the outer walls gape wide enough for a respectable-sized cat to slip through.

And inside? It’s leaking like a politician’s promise—stains on the sanctuary ceiling, puddles under the pews, and enough dampness to make a trout feel perfectly at home.

Caretaker Tim Roth, who started by running the gift shop over a decade ago and stuck around like a man who came in for coffee and ended up managing the saloon, says the place stirs the soul. “It affects people,” Roth said, eyes glistening like a bishop’s ring. “I get folks who come in and leave in tears.”

And not from the mildew either—though that’d be understandable.

St. Mary’s bones go back to the 1860s when Father Patrick Manogue—Irish miner turned priest—figured a town of drunken roughnecks and raucous miners needed salvation more than silver. The first church stood proud until the Great Fire of 1875 tried to send it back to the heavens in a pillar of smoke. It’s told the townsfolk tried to blow the roof off to save it—an idea born of whiskey and desperation—but the stone skeleton stayed put, and they rebuilt atop the old foundation like a phoenix risen but with smoke-stained feathers.

Now, nearly 150 years later, the old gal’s showing her age and not kindly.

Jacob Arndt, a masonry man from Wisconsin—where folks know a thing or two about stone and stubbornness—came west to take a peek.

What he found was a mess worthy of Biblical lament. The mortar used in past restorations, he says, was as wrong for the building as a tuxedo on a mule.

Too hard, too brittle, and modern as tomorrow’s newspaper, it’s done more harm than good.

“It’s a disaster,” Arndt said, shaking his head like a man who’s watched a butter churn get used for making dynamite. “You can’t just slap modern mortar on historic stone and expect it to behave. That’s like feeding a steamboat coal dust and calling it progress.”

And so the bricks crack. The foundation shifts. The water creeps in like a lazy outlaw, ruining everything, slowly and quietly.

Roth, who’s grown as protective of the church as a mother bear with her cub, now spends his days chucking inferior stone and salvaging what the Lord—and the original builders—intended. He’s squirreling away the old bits, marking where they belong like a man planning a puzzle two decades into the future.

The problem, according to Arndt, is that real experts are rare as hen’s teeth and twice as quiet.

“It’s an endemic problem,” he said, using words fancier than most buildings he’s tasked with saving. “Restoration’s a trade, not a hobby. And nobody’s enforcing the rules, even though they’re written down clear as scripture.”

It’s not that folks don’t care—plenty of volunteers lend a hand and a prayer. Donations often go to keeping the church warm in winter rather than upright in spring. To give directly to restoration, you’ve got to ask—or go to stmarysvc.org, where your dollars can do more than heat pew cushions.

And if you’ve never ventured off C Street, Roth wants you to know–you’re missing a cathedral carved out of time. A place so holy even the ghosts kneel at the altar.

So, if you’ve got a mind for beauty, a hand for stone, or a wallet with something to spare, consider doing your part. Because if we let this church fall, it won’t be fire or flood that did it—it’ll be forgetfulness.

And that, dear reader, would be the real tragedy.