This CBS 60 Minutes article got me to thinkin’ ’bout a new domicile:
Yucca Mountain sits on federal land in Nevada, not far from Death Valley, in a remote stretch of desert, 90 miles northwest of Las Vegas. The nearest commercial establishment is a brothel 15 miles away.
As a former friend put it, “Sounds pretty seductive with all this fancy marketing language, eh? Now, if there was a general store at the brothel…”
Ah, so that’s why it’s so expensive; the amenities. And, of course, the remote stretch. Ahhh, that felt good. The remote stretch.
Doing my part to enlighten those of you in the “ninety percent of the country [who have] no idea where Yucca Mountain is,” I provide the following link. So, now you have joined that elite 10%. Congratulations! Your prize will be shipped within the next 8-10 years er, weeks. Of course, now that I know where Yucca Mountain is, I realize that it’s too close to Las Vegas, so…
While not right up against Yucca Mt., Crescent Valley does at least have the potential to be on a rail line hauling nuclear waste to the facility. Yes, potential: that which to which we have yet to live up.
Speaking of living up, lots of small town business establishments fulfill multiple needs of the surrounding populace: you know — real estate, ammunition, antiques, beef jerky, bail bonds, used cars, embroidered pillows and gasoline. So, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and venture to say that the typical brothel in Nevada does indeed include a general store. Wonder if the employees multi-task.
<FADE IN: the simulated pecky cedar wood grain laminate checkout counter in a multi-purpose general store manned (is that the word?) by a scantily clad woman in her early 70s. Her name tag, strategically pinned, reads “Madame Roux, Realtor/Facilitator”>
“May I take your order, sir?”
“Yes, I want a case of those spearmint-flavored beef jerky things, a pair of those embroidered Elvis pillows, and 15 minutes of consensual sex.”
“Will that be for here or to go?”
“For here. Oh, and I almost forgot, I need to pick up a little 40-acre parcel of parched, featureless desert land downwind of the big Yucca.”
“No problem. Anything else?”
“Yeah, a 60×200 General Steel aircraft hangar.”
“Cash or charge?”
“Charge. Can I get it all gift wrapped?”
“No, I’m so sorry. Our gift-wrapping associate is tied up with another customer. We don’t expect her to be released from… er available for another day or two.”
“Really? Well, then forget it.”
“Sir! You want me to restock all this stuff? You’ll have to pay a restocking charge.”
“Oh yeah? How much is that?”
“15 minutes of non-consensual sex.”
She removes her name tag and plunks it down on the simulated pecky cedar wood grain countertop with a deft yet clumsy movement that reveals… She is a he. Well, partially. Sort of. Maybe. Hard to tell. Perhaps it’s the ambient radiation? The heat?
“You gotta be kidding! I already paid at the office.”
<FADE OUT: security personnel approach from various directions>
Tune in again next week when Nuclear Waste Man returns in an apparition near you.
