🗞️The Dump – June 13, 2025🗞️
Your weekly look at the weird, the wild, and Williamson County
Hey everyone — summer is here, and so is The Dump.
Welcome to your weekly look at the weird, the wild, and Williamson County.
This week’s edition has lawsuits, lawn fights, disappearing congressmen, and one very confused McDonald’s.
You’re not ready.
Let’s dump it out.
💰 STOP-LOSS, START-STUPID
One Commissioner’s Confusion Could Cost You $2.5 Million
At the June 9 meeting of the Williamson County Board of Commissioners, Resolution 625-40 came up for consideration—a late-filed but critical item to extend the county’s stop-loss insurance—the coverage that keeps Williamson County from going bankrupt when big medical claims hit.
It was bid out. Vetted. Unanimously approved in committee.
But thanks to Commissioner Lisa Hayes Lenox, it never even made it to the floor.
“It’s concerning to me when it’s a $90 million line item… we got no transparency, we got no detail. I think a lot of people couldn’t even tell you what stop-loss is in this room.”
— Lenox, objecting to a resolution she openly didn’t understand
Lenox—joined by Commissioner Chris Richards—blocked the commission from even hearing the resolution. The cost? According to Mayor Rogers Anderson:
“If we go into July 1 without reinsurance, then I’ve got to buy six-month stability—and that price tag versus a year’s price tag is significant. In several million dollars.”
This wasn’t about voting for or against. This was about hearing it. Asking questions. Getting answers. Lenox, who skipped the benefits committee meeting, insisted on having another one to learn what she refused to hear.
“We need to have a county-wide commission meeting to discuss the benefits,” she said.
Meanwhile, the chair of that committee reminded everyone:
“This is the stop-loss renewal. Our current coverage expires June 30. The 12-month contract gives us significant cost savings.”
Even Mayor Anderson, not known for strong words, finally broke:
“It’s your vote. But there’s nothing I can do between now and June 20. I will have to call a meeting at 8 a.m. to get this done.”
Which he did.
🧾 WW BOTTOM LINE:
Transparency sounds noble. But when it’s used to stall decisions you didn’t bother to prepare for, it’s not oversight—it’s theater.
This job starts with showing up, doing the reading, and knowing what the hell you’re talking about.
They didn’t.
So now the rest of us might get stuck funding their little performance.
🏡 COVENANT WARS: 100 FEET OF PURE NONSENSE
There’s an ancient law in Nolensville, carved into stone tablets by three dudes named Johnson in 1965, that says you can’t build within 100 feet of the front of your property. Why? Because... reasons. And now, thanks to that sacred scroll of suburbia, a perfectly good land sale is dead, a developer has walked, and the whole neighborhood is suing each other like it’s Judge Judy: HOA Edition.
At the center of the holy war? None other than Mayor Halie Gallik and her husband Michael, who apparently believe property covenants are forever—like diamonds, or the trauma of going to Planning Commission meetings.
The plaintiffs—a group of neighbors just trying to sell their land without ghost covenants haunting the deal—drafted a mutual release to wipe this stupidity off the books. They got signatures. They were ready. But then the Galliks said, essentially, “Nah. We like it weird.”
🔍 WHAT’S ACTUALLY HAPPENING HERE?
The restriction is from 1965, which is technically the same year Medicare became a thing. The idea was: no buildings within 100 feet of the road. Because back then, nothing said “classy” like having a third of an acre of useless grass between your house and the world.
The town now has actual zoning. Like, real adult rules. With setbacks that make sense.
Nobody has enforced this covenant in decades. Half the neighborhood has outbuildings parked all over the imaginary lines. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed. Until money showed up.
And that’s when everything fell apart. A developer tried to buy several parcels and build something that fits within Nolensville’s new zoning code. But thanks to the Galliks' refusal to sign the waiver, the deal tanked, the developer bolted, and now the only thing getting developed is legal drama.
So the plaintiffs sued, asking a judge to declare what everyone else already knows: this covenant is deader than a Sears catalog.
💥 THE GALLIK RESPONSE?
Oh, they lawyered up.
Their argument? Just because a restriction is old, ignored, unused, impractical, and counterproductive doesn’t mean it’s invalid. In fact, they cited the zoning ordinance five different times to prove that private restrictions can override local law. Because of course they did. Nothing screams “small-town governance” like quoting yourself to block your town’s own planning goals.
Also: the plaintiffs—specifically the Levines—apparently reaffirmed the very same restriction back in 2008 when they moved the property into a trust. Yes. They tried to vanquish a restriction they personally re-recorded. That’s like lighting your own house on fire and then suing the matches.
🤹♀️ AND THE OPTICS?
You’ve got a sitting mayor, whose day job is city planning-adjacent, holding up development in her own backyard based on a Cold War-era no-build zone. She's not doing this as mayor, technically—but she’s also not doing anything to help as mayor, either. So take that for what it’s worth.
⚖️ WHO WINS?
If the court rules by the book: the Galliks walk away smug, the plaintiffs stew, and Nolensville zoning remains a cosmic joke.
If the court uses common sense: the covenant gets yeeted into the void and everyone moves on with their lives.
Either way, the rest of us are stuck reading about people arguing over a 100-foot lawn nobody wants.
WW BOTTOM LINE:
You can’t build too close to the road—but apparently you can build an entire lawsuit around a rule nobody enforced.
The Galliks might be defending their property rights. Or maybe just defending their right to be difficult. Either way, it’s peak Nolensville: where zoning fights are sacred, 1965 still rules, and the past refuses to die—because it’s been notarized.
🏗️ THE FEE IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE
The developers get paid up front. The homeowners get the invoice later. It’s not fraud—it’s policy.
At Franklin’s June 10 board work session, city officials cracked open the legislative mystery box known as the Infrastructure Development District—or IDD, for those playing acronym roulette. This shiny new financing scheme allows developers to fund roads, sewers and sidewalks by tacking on decades-long tax bills to future homeowners. Not today’s residents. Not the city. Just whoever shows up after the ribbon cutting.
On paper, it sounds like exactly what Franklin’s been asking for: a way to make growth pay for itself. If a developer builds it, they should fund it—and if they don’t want to write a check on day one, they can hold the debt and let their residents pay it off over time. That means fewer taxpayer subsidies, fewer delays waiting for citywide projects to align, and—maybe—a little breathing room in the budget for once.
It could also help slow down the race toward high-density infill. When the cost of infrastructure gets passed back to the people who actually live in a development, small luxury boxes look a lot less attractive. This isn’t just a financing tool—it’s a market lever.
But the city isn’t ready yet. The IDD law is live. The process can start tomorrow. And Franklin has no written policy in place. No formal framework for approval. No clear protections to keep this from becoming just another backdoor tax with a different name.
Even the board members open to the idea made it clear: this only works if the city draws a hard line on how, when and where it gets used. Without that, IDDs won’t fund infrastructure—they’ll fund lawsuits.
WW Bottom Line:
This could be Franklin’s smartest financing move in years—or the fastest way to blow a hole in its legal budget. IDDs let the city say yes to development without saying yes to new taxes. But without strict oversight, they become a political time bomb buried in your mortgage. The idea isn’t bad. The execution? That’s the part that gets you sued.
🏛️ ETHICS DRAMA ENDS IN BRENTWOOD: LITTLE CLEARED OVER “REPLY ALL” INCIDENT
One rogue email. One deletion request. One ethics complaint. Welcome to Brentwood.
On Monday, the City Commission voted 5–0 to dismiss an ethics complaint against Vice Mayor Rhea Little. Little abstained from voting—because class.
The complaint, filed by resident Rebecca Martinez, accused Little of violating the city charter when he accidentally hit “Reply All” on a constituent email and then asked the city’s tech director to remove it from commissioners’ inboxes. An outside investigation found no wrongdoing and no city law violated. End scene.
But not before Little stepped to the mic with a little fire of his own:
“This was a horrible thing for my family, my wife, my friends, my business. It’s something I’ll never get over.”
He forgave Martinez and her backers—but made clear he wouldn’t forget it. Ever. He also called for an overhaul of the city’s ethics code to prevent political stunts this close to elections.
Mayor Nelson Andrews backed him up, calling the whole saga “an unnecessary and divisive detour.”
🪑 WHO FILLS THE EMPTY CHAIR?
The commission also voted 5–1 to appoint a replacement for Commissioner Susannah Macmillan, who resigned in May. A new member will be seated July 14.
Ken Travis was the lone “no” vote, saying the people deserved to choose. The rest of the board—clearly tired of ballots and brawls—said Brentwood had seen enough drama for one year.
Commissioner Donahue:
“Fill the seat, get your whole board and move on.”
And Little, again with the closer:
“I think the city of Brentwood is ready to move on.”
🔥 FIRE DEPARTMENT PROMOTIONS
Also Monday: Brentwood Fire & Rescue promoted four officers in a badge-pinning ceremony. No complaints were filed. No votes were cast. Nobody got publicly shamed. It was almost un-Brentwood.
It’s Brentwood: petty and polished, all at once.
🧸 WWE BLANKET BANDIT UNMASKED: MCDONALD’S ROBBERY GETS A FACE AND A FLANNEL
Franklin Police were called to the McDonald’s in Cool Springs Wednesday night for something even weirder than the usual ice cream machine excuses.
Just before 8:30 p.m., a man walked into the Galleria Boulevard location wearing a blanket covered in WWE wrestler logos, pointed a pistol at the cashier, and demanded cash.
Then he fled the scene in a white Kia Soul with the license plate duct-taped like a 7th grader’s science fair project.
Yes. That actually happened.
NOW ENTERING THE RING: WILLIAM D. BARTHOLOMEW
On Thursday, police identified the suspect as William D. Bartholomew, age 52, of Jackson, Tennessee.
If that name sounds like someone who owns a model train set and an assault charge—you’re not wrong.
He’s described as heavy-set, gray-bearded, and apparently swaddled in merch from the WWE clearance bin. An arrest warrant for aggravated robbery has been issued, and he’s still on the run, presumably fueled by a mix of adrenaline, powdered donuts, and Mountain Dew LiveWire.
Bartholomew’s story is a cautionary tale: from couch to convict in under ten minutes. One minute you’re watching SummerSlam reruns, the next you’re pointing a pistol over a cash drawer and peeling out in a duct-taped Soul.
Police are urging him to turn himself in peacefully. Given the blanket, the car, and the strategy, we’re guessing he’s not exactly in stealth mode.
THEORIES OF THE CRIME:
Theory 1: Bartholomew lost a bet.
Theory 2: The ice cream machine was down one too many times.
Theory 3: He needed quick cash for ringside seats at a WWE pay-per-view and didn’t realize DoorDash was hiring.
Whatever the motive, Franklin is now the proud host of Tennessee’s most theatrically dressed felony of the year.
WW BOTTOM LINE:
If you see him, don’t wrestle him. Just call the friendly Franklin PD…
and let the main event begin.
🚽 FINAL FLUSH: MARK GREEN’S OILY EXIT AND THE GOP THUNDERDOME
Mark Green is leaving.
Not in two years. Not at the end of a term. Not after finishing the job he asked voters to rehire him to do. No — he’s bailing now, mid-session, barely six months after being handed another two years in Congress by the people of Tennessee’s 7th District.
The reason?
A private-sector opportunity so mysterious and so urgent that he couldn’t be bothered to finish the work he was elected to do. He’s in Guyana, reportedly chasing oil deals and missing votes — while still drawing a taxpayer paycheck and still wielding the Homeland Security gavel.
It doesn’t take a congressional investigation to smell what’s going on here.
This thing reeks of Exxon fumes and lobbyist cologne.
Let’s be clear: this is not how public service is supposed to work.
Green didn’t just hold a powerful seat. He held the trust of voters who stuck with him through scandal, divorce headlines, and a sleepwalk re-election campaign. And he gave them his word — that he would serve. That he would fight. That he’d be there.
Now? He's gone.
Gone from committee meetings. Gone from floor votes. Gone to something more lucrative. And the people who believed him — the very people who just re-elected him — are left asking: What exactly did we vote for?
🥊 THE GOP THUNDERDOME OPENS
Now begins the mad dash for Green’s empty seat, and the field is already filling with veterans, operatives, and a few folks who seem to think showing up qualifies as a résumé.
Matt Van Epps: Former Lee administration official and early entrant. Insiders say he’s Green’s pick — reportedly had a heads-up on the resignation and was quietly positioned to launch before the rest of the field could finish Googling “FEC filing deadlines.”
Maj. Jason Knight: 101st Airborne. Trump-aligned. Running as a take-no-prisoners conservative — the kind of candidate who’ll salute the flag and then try to deport your lawn service.
Jon Thorp: Self-proclaimed outsider pushing for term limits, federal audits, and what he calls a “Liberty Reset.” Didn’t vote for 24 years because the system was broken. He’s back to fix it with a helicopter license, a livestream, and a master’s degree in shouting “Austrian economics” at anyone who feigns interest.
Michael Lotfi: Policy-minded, says he’s flawed, but honest. A conservative technocrat type who could surprise people if voters are looking for substance over soundbites.
Jody Barrett: Current Tennessee state rep. Wants a promotion. From what, no one’s sure. His legislative accomplishments are so scarce they’d fit on a sticky note. And yet here he is — angling for Congress like it’s a reserved parking spot.
And then there’s State Sen. Bill Powers — the million-dollar man. He hasn’t officially declared, but if he does, he’s expected to become the instant frontrunner. Word is he’s prepared to put seven figures of his own money into the race, and he’s got name recognition in the heart of the district. If this turns into a ground game, Powers is already at midfield.
Also floating around the primary pool:
Lee Reeves: grassroots favorite with regional momentum,
Aron Maberry: longtime conservative organizer,
Brandon Ogles: former state rep, present-ish, current status: maybe.
It’s a pile-up at the gate — and the starter pistol is still warm.
🔵 DEMOCRATS STILL MULLING IT OVER
Vincent Dixie says he’s “98.3% sure.”
Bo Mitchell is said to be weighing it.
Megan Barry says she’s “taking it all in” — again.
John Ray Clemmons says Democrats need unity but won’t say if he’s the one to lead it.
Also mentioned: Cooper, Yarbro, Glover, and Copeland — collectively moving with the speed and precision of a hungover Sunday brunch crowd.
🧨 THE PROBLEM ISN’T THE CANDIDATES. IT’S THE CIRCUMSTANCE.
This race shouldn’t be happening right now. And it wouldn’t be, if Green had simply honored the job he just asked for. He didn’t have to run. He chose to. He asked for another term. He got it. And then he walked away.
It doesn’t matter what your politics are — this is a failure of commitment.
He didn’t step down because he was called to serve elsewhere.
He stepped down because something shinier came along.
This is a breach of trust.
We lost a key conservative voice in Congress not because the voters rejected him — but because he rejected us.
That’s the part that sticks.
He had the title. He had the trust. And now we’ve got a job opening.
He said he’d finish what he started—that he’d serve—that he cared.
He didn’t.
He left Tennessee voters with a goodbye wave, a mystery job,
and a seat colder than his marriage.
In the end, he served alright—just not the people who elected him.
And we’ve reached the end. Thanks for reading, and hope you're off to a great summer.
If you’re headed to the beach, don’t forget your sunscreen, your sunglasses, and apparently—your stop-loss policy.
See you next week.
Stay wrong, Williamson. 🧻
