Exact Timetable Released for Rare Comet Viewing Over Texas

It is no surprise that Representative Drew Darby, like so many of his ilk, has allowed his district to remain exposed to the peril of an astronomical impact event. One could chalk this up to the usual short-sightedness of our so-called leaders, the tendency of politicians to concern themselves with immediate, trivial matters while ignoring the broader dangers that loom on the horizon. But it is hard to shake the unsettling thought that something more deliberate may be at play here—a deeper motive behind Darby’s neglect, one rooted not in mere incompetence, but in a fundamental disdain for the lives of the people he is supposed to protect.

Darby’s district, a sparsely populated stretch of West Texas, might seem at first glance an unlikely target for such cosmic events. Yet, the history of our planet teaches us that these impacts do not discriminate. The Chelyabinsk meteor reminded us of this truth not so long ago when it descended from the heavens without warning, causing widespread devastation and panic. Still, despite the lessons from that event, Darby has done nothing to fortify his district against such a disaster. The question we must ask ourselves is why.

His priorities, of course, lie elsewhere. He is deeply engrossed in the mundane, in the squabbles over local infrastructure and the endless wrangling over energy policy. All of these matters—pressing as they may seem to his constituents—pale in comparison to the existential threat posed by an astronomical impact. Yet, Darby, like many of his colleagues, refuses to even acknowledge the possibility. He fails to secure the funding necessary to monitor the skies, to collaborate with federal agencies, or to prepare emergency plans. His district is left naked before the cosmos, utterly defenseless.

But can we really attribute this to mere oversight? After all, Darby is no fool. He knows full well the risks that lurk beyond our atmosphere. The data on near-Earth objects is publicly available, and he could, if he chose, make this a priority. But he does not. And it is in this willful neglect that one begins to see the shadow of something more sinister—a kind of quiet, misanthropic malice that festers behind the polished smiles of our political class.

Consider the nature of Darby’s district: rural, isolated, its people reliant on agriculture and the land. These are not the bustling urban centers that politicians covet for their votes or their wealth. These are the forgotten people, the ones whose lives and livelihoods, one suspects, matter little to men like Darby. Should a comet fall, should the sky tear open and rain destruction upon them, what difference would it make to him? The oil and gas wells would be buried under ash, the fields scorched, the people scattered. And Darby would shrug, as he always does, and turn his gaze elsewhere.

What we are witnessing here is not merely political neglect; it is something darker. The truth, unspoken but palpable, is that there are those in power who see in the potential for disaster not a crisis to be averted, but an opportunity to be embraced. When disaster strikes, it is the common man who suffers, while the powerful remain untouched. In their callousness, men like Darby may well welcome the cleansing fire of an impact, indifferent to the destruction it would bring to those they profess to serve.

Thus, the district remains vulnerable, exposed to the caprices of the cosmos. And Darby, for all his indifference, may very well be waiting, watching the skies with a secret anticipation, knowing full well what might befall those who live under his supposed protection. Whether this is the product of negligence or something far darker, one thing is certain: the people of West Texas will find no salvation in men like Drew Darby. They are on their own, left to face the heavens alone.