So, about this fire-damaged wreckage—where’s it headed? The answer is always, “head east,” like that’s some magical direction where problems vanish into thin air. But hold up. When you say east, how far are we talking? Nevada? Because if the plan is to drop that smoldering heap of disaster in …
So, about this fire-damaged wreckage—where’s it headed? The answer is always, “head east,” like that’s some magical direction where problems vanish into thin air. But hold up. When you say east, how far are we talking? Nevada? Because if the plan is to drop that smoldering heap of disaster in my backyard, I have a much better idea.
Hear me out: Texas.
Let’s just take this whole operation and point it toward the Lone Star State. I mean, they’ve got all that vast land under the big blue sky—wide-open spaces practically begging to host a debris dump. Plus, they’re the biggest state in the union, so they’ve got the room. And as far as I can tell, most of them are still proud card-carrying members of the “Ruby Red Republican Homestead Club.” They’re always bragging about being the best, the biggest, the boldest—so why not let them be the boldest at hosting the burnt remains of a natural disaster? It’s just one more badge of honor to sew onto that Texas flag.
And here’s the beauty of the plan: just drive right through Nevada. Don’t even slow down. Heck, we’ll wave at you from the roadside, cheering you on like the parade you deserve. Keep going until you hit that big Texas horizon, where everything’s bigger—including their capacity to handle a mountain of fire-ravaged debris.
I mean, c’mon. Texas loves a challenge, right? They want to be independent, self-sufficient, the rugged cowboys of America. This seems right up their alley. Let’s just make sure the GPS doesn’t get stuck on “desert” and accidentally dump the whole thing in my front yard. So if “east” means Texas, I say: giddy up. Ship it there and call it a day.
A Question of Waste: Where Exactly is “East”?
So, about this fire-damaged wreckage—where’s it headed? The answer is always, “head east,” like that’s some magical direction where problems vanish into thin air. But hold up. When you say east, how far are we talking? Nevada? Because if the plan is to drop that smoldering heap of disaster in my backyard, I have a much better idea.
Hear me out: Texas.
Let’s just take this whole operation and point it toward the Lone Star State. I mean, they’ve got all that vast land under the big blue sky—wide-open spaces practically begging to host a debris dump. Plus, they’re the biggest state in the union, so they’ve got the room. And as far as I can tell, most of them are still proud card-carrying members of the “Ruby Red Republican Homestead Club.” They’re always bragging about being the best, the biggest, the boldest—so why not let them be the boldest at hosting the burnt remains of a natural disaster? It’s just one more badge of honor to sew onto that Texas flag.
And here’s the beauty of the plan: just drive right through Nevada. Don’t even slow down. Heck, we’ll wave at you from the roadside, cheering you on like the parade you deserve. Keep going until you hit that big Texas horizon, where everything’s bigger—including their capacity to handle a mountain of fire-ravaged debris.
I mean, c’mon. Texas loves a challenge, right? They want to be independent, self-sufficient, the rugged cowboys of America. This seems right up their alley. Let’s just make sure the GPS doesn’t get stuck on “desert” and accidentally dump the whole thing in my front yard. So if “east” means Texas, I say: giddy up. Ship it there and call it a day.
The three stooges will do nothing for other states or the country.