🗞️ THE DUMP — November 21, 2025
YOUR WEEKLY LOOK AT THE WEIRD, THE WILD AND WILLIAMSON COUNTY
Hey there, friends — it’s the Friday before Thanksgiving.
Did you run out the clock on your vacation days already? Planning to play hooky all next week under the noble banner of “remote work”?
However you’re approaching the holiday, you made it. Welcome back to your weekly look at the weird, the wild, and Williamson County.
And ooooh, do we have some dishes simmering on the stove today. We’ve got a School Board meeting where adults and teenagers wrestle like family fighting over the last deviled egg. We’ve got that “farm pond” — yes, that one — boiling over again, while a former state rep hits a professional dead end. And over in the corner, a presidential pardonee tries to stage a political comeback while the Tennessee Registry sets the oven to “broil.”
And before we get to the Final Flush, we’ve got a little palate cleanser — the comfort food you deserve after the civic casserole this county keeps serving.
So loosen your belts, jive turkeys.
Let’s dump it out.
📵 BELL TO BELL BEDLAM
Last Monday’s Williamson County School Board meeting delivered the most action a cell phone has ever caused without ending up in a toilet. What might’ve been a simple second reading of Policy 6.312 turned into another round of Phone Thunderdome — bell-to-bell purists vs. lunch-access moderates — the kind of matchup where all you need is a fog machine, an octagon, and a guy in the corner yelling, “Let’s get it on!”
Public comment served as the undercard and didn’t help much: students begged for lunch access, parents begged for fewer distractions, and Dr. Nidhi Gupta politely reminded everyone that smartphones basically turn adolescent brains into Jell-O shooters.
Then District 9’s Dr. Claire Reeves took the mic. After previously floating a full phone blackout, she arrived with a compromise: phones silenced, stored off the body, tucked into some form of secure storage, and returned to high-schoolers at lunch. She even held up a show-and-tell Faraday pouch. And for a moment, the room squinted into the mythical world of life without dopamine — a calm, shimmering place that lasted exactly as long as she held the pouch in the air.
And then the real fight began: who stores it, who enforces it, and who gets stuck footing the bill for a countywide experiment in teenage phone containment?
Dr. Margie Johnson did the math out loud: pouches are about twenty bucks each, which puts the district somewhere near “please don’t tell the Budget Committee yet” territory. And absolutely nobody volunteered to be liable if a confiscated iPhone mysteriously meets its maker.
Dr. Dennis Driggers pushed the all-in approach: if phones are harming focus, behavior, and mental health, then lunch shouldn’t be a loophole. Bell-to-bell means bell-to-bell. As in: no TikTok snack, no doomscroll dessert. Nada.
Superintendent Jason Golden kept his comments strictly in the administrative lane. He reminded the board that he’s “not prepared to commit to pouches yet,” and that what he’s talking about is “piloting it and vetting it” — as in, try it out, and make sure the district isn’t committing to a piece of hardware that falls apart faster than a sophomore’s algebra grade.
That’s when Chairman Josh Brown rolled out the amendment that eventually carried the night. His version stripped out detailed storage instructions but kept the lunch exception. The only problem? His draft said the district “can” develop a storage procedure — which, in policy-speak, is basically the equivalent of “do it if you feel like it.” Reeves countered: “can” is optional, unenforceable, and not the intention. Brown fixed it on the spot — “shall” — turning the district’s task from a suggestion into an actual mandate.
The amendment passed 11–1. The final policy passed 10–2.
WW BOTTOM LINE
Progress has been made. Phones are going away. Lunch survives. Golden now has some pilot-program homework. And the district has eight months to define the slipperiest part of this entire saga: “securely.” Because nobody actually knows whether that means a pouch, a locker, or simply “not in your sweaty little teenage hand.”
💥 THE QUARRY THAT WOULDN’T QUIT
If you thought Rep. Todd Warner’s “farm pond” saga on Verona Caney Road was winding down, think again. It’s back, louder (and dumber) than ever — and this time, the plot includes a six-hour traffic shutdown, a vanishing comment thread, and a shiny new mining permit with Warner’s name all over it.
It started Monday, after dark — when a dump truck snapped a utility pole clean in two and blocked Verona Caney between McCool Road and River Road. The Chapel Hill Police Department posted an update online, saying crews were on scene and the cleanup could take hours. They weren’t kidding — it took six. But the real pileup wasn’t on the road. It was in the comments section.
Locals flooded with online comments asking the same question: where did the truck come from? One man answered flatly — “It’s a PCS truck… probably Todd Warner’s quarry.” Another asked why the police department was hiding comments, and within hours, most of the replies disappeared. The post showed nearly forty comments and shares, but when the dust settled, only three remained publicly visible. As one commenter put it, “They’re selectively hiding them.”
Now maybe that’s just Facebook being Facebook — or maybe it’s small-town damage control. But the timing sure smells like diesel, especially when that blocked stretch of road just happens to lead straight to Warner’s so-called “pond” — the one neighbors and inspectors alike have called a quarry in disguise.
According to the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation (TDEC), Warner’s property — listed under Cason Warner — is the proud owner of Mining Permit TN0070733. Officially, it’s called Warner Farms Lake, which is adorable, since the activity description reads: “limestone processing.” The state opened public comment on November 19, giving residents thirty days to weigh in. But locals say Warner still hasn’t posted the legally required sign at the site. Translation: he’s getting his thirty days of silence before anyone even knows to complain.
And if that weren’t enough nerve to fill a quarry, this year, Rep. Warner also sponsored HB1072 — a bill to loosen TDEC’s conservation rules for “agricultural” projects. That’s right: the same man caught pretending a quarry was a pond tried to pass a law to make pretending legal — tailor-made for the kind of “agriculture” he’s blasting in his own backyard.
WW BOTTOM LINE
In most of Tennessee, they call it irony. In Marshall County, they call it enterprise.
Warner says he’s digging a pond, but it’s really just a monument to loopholes — carved one blast at a time.
🚧 DURHAM DEAD-END AHEAD
Former state representative Jeremy Durham has officially reached the end of the road. The Tennessee Supreme Court has now suspended him from practicing law following his felony reckless-endangerment conviction — the same case we covered last Spring, back when the dashcam footage was still circulating and everyone was Googling “did he really say it’s all about the blood?”
This latest disciplinary action ties back to Durham’s 2022 late-night Broadway crash, where police recorded a 0.136 BAC, found minor marijuana paraphernalia in the vehicle, and arrested him after what could generously be described as a spirited discussion about handcuffs. He declined sobriety tests at the scene, but the bloodwork later told the full story. The jury convicted him on five counts in May 2025.
Durham received seven days in jail, one year of probation, a license revocation, and fines. Under state rules, a felony reckless-endangerment conviction automatically triggers a review of an attorney’s license. The Supreme Court’s order, issued last week, removes his ability to practice while further disciplinary steps play out.
It’s another layer added to a long public record already marked by campaign-finance disputes, ethics complaints, and his 2016 expulsion from the Tennessee House after the Attorney General documented inappropriate conduct toward 22 women — an expulsion so rare it put him in his own historical category.
Durham continued working in law and real estate in Franklin in recent years, but the conviction leaves no path forward without Supreme Court intervention. No timeline has been set for future review.
WW BOTTOM LINE
Durham’s professional life didn’t collapse all at once — it came apart the way old barns do, one board at a time, until the last gust finally took it down. This time, that gust came from the Supreme Court. Maybe he finds a new direction from here. Southerners love a comeback story, and Franklin’s seen a few good ones. But even the best redemption arcs start with accountability.
Hope springs eternal. Confidence… well, that one’s been revoked for a while.
Best wishes, “Pants Candy.”
🔥 COTHREN’S CAMPAIGN DREAM JUST HIT A WALL (AND LEFT A DENT)
Last week, we told you Cade Cothren was wandering around social media like a man who mistook a presidential pardon for a ticket back into Tennessee politics. He was taking victory laps, taking shots at Speaker Cameron Sexton, and letting rumors swirl that he might run for the state House. We said then: Go for it. We love a good spectacle.
Well, that spectacle may have just been rescheduled — courtesy of the Tennessee Registry of Election Finance.
The Registry has officially reopened its investigation into the Faith Family Freedom Fund PAC — the same PAC Cothren’s former girlfriend testified she set up at his request while he hid in the back room pulling the strings like a Dollar General version of Karl Rove. That testimony isn’t gossip. It’s sworn, which is the one thing Cade has never been able to do without regretting it later.
And now that his federal charges have been scrubbed away by presidential Sharpie, state regulators want him back under the fluorescent lights. They want to talk about the filings, the treasurer reports that looked like they were completed during a frat party, the deceptive paperwork, and the PAC’s sudden fixation on kneecapping Rick Tillis while propping up Rep. Todd Warner (this guy again?) — who, God bless him, is still paying that same girlfriend $1,000 a month for “social media.” (Question: Does she handle social media for Chapel Hill Police Department? — okay, that’s a joke. Please don’t tase me.)
Cade, buddy… here’s the thing: none of this pairs well with a campaign announcement.
You can’t debut “Candidate Cothren” when the state is actively asking whether you falsified PAC documents, forged signatures, and used your ex-girlfriend like a political sock puppet. You can’t schedule a rally when the only podium waiting for you is in a hearing room with a stenographer who already sighs every time she types your name.
But by all means — if you still want to run, please do. Truly. You owe us that joy. This county has been through a lot, and frankly, a Cothren campaign would be funnier than open-mic night at Zanies.
WW BOTTOM LINE
Tennessee didn’t forget Cothren’s PAC. Tennessee didn’t forget the subpoenas, the paperwork, or the girlfriend. The only person pretending this is a comeback story is Cothren — and even he’s not buying the ticket.
Regardless, run, Cade. RUN.
(Seriously).
We need the content.
🍔 Benchmark: The Anti-Smash Oasis
Benchmark Sports Pub + Eatery isn’t really a “sports bar,” no matter how many TVs are hanging around pretending to be ESPN 7’s studio. Maybe on Saturdays it is — fine. But that’s not the magic.
The magic is this: if you just want a place to sit down, breathe for a minute, and eat a real hamburger — a normal, honest, backyard-tasting hamburger — Benchmark is almost impossible to beat. It’s not smashed, not grass-fed, not wagyu’d, and definitely not aioli’d. It just tastes like Uncle Jimbo fired up the grill after three hours in the above-ground pool and said, “Y’all hungry?”
They’ve got wraps, salads, wings — all good. The drinks? Cold beer and good wine… and mixed drinks that people actually order, like Cherry Coke and Crown. Sounds questionable. It looked downright drinkable.
And the service? The bartender — the one usually there — is just genuinely kind. Takes good care of you. Smiles a lot. Tip her big. You’ll want to anyway.
So maybe this is a water-is-wet moment. Maybe you already know.
But if you don’t?
Now you do.
⚖️ FINAL FLUSH: THE ORBISON AFFAIR
Word travels fast in Williamson County, and, unless you live in a cave, you already know that the Franklin High teacher who posted those ugly Instagram messages about Charlie Kirk’s assassination was reinstated… with full back pay — only to resign almost immediately afterward. After all the noise, this saga ended with the equivalent of a shrug.
Folks around here are left asking the natural question: what was the point?
So… A teacher says something incendiary about Kirk’s death, gets picked up by national media, pressure builds, and then the district swings the big hammer: suspension, investigation, no-contact orders. Then weeks pass, the lawyers circle the wagons, and — surprise — reinstatement arrives with a carefully worded letter saying the district didn’t have grounds to discipline after all.
Yeah… Nobody’s buying that.
Meanwhile, lawsuits in other Tennessee counties are moving forward. Rutherford County has its own version of this mess. Eventually, another case will land squarely in the Tennessee Supreme Court’s lap. That’s where the real answer will come.
The core question isn’t whether Emily Orbison is a good teacher or a bad one. It isn’t even whether her Instagram is private or not. The real question is this: Does Tennessee’s Teacher Code of Ethics actually mean anything when a public-school employee uses their platform to mock the death of a public figure?
If the code is binding, then discipline should stick. If the code collapses under constitutional scrutiny, then Tennessee teachers essentially have more freedom on social media than literally anyone else with a normal job and a normal boss.
But there’s also the budget angle. Every hour a district attorney spends on this is an hour not spent on something else. Every motion filed has billable hours attached. And it’s no secret that Williamson County Schools is staring down big financial pressures. So the calculation may have been simple: let Rutherford County or someone else carry the legal load. Let them pay the toll to the Supreme Court while Williamson stays in the right-hand lane, waving politely from a distance.
But the district still leaves behind a message, whether intended or not: Teachers can post almost anything under the banner of “political speech,” and the county may not touch it. That’s a dangerous kind of clarity — the kind that settles nothing.
Facts are clear: Orbison’s posts caused disruption. In the classroom, in the community, and in the inboxes of every school board member. Pretending this was a quiet little dust-up is like pretending a tornado was “a light breeze.”
Whether a judge eventually rules that her speech was protected or not, the character of the message stands on its own. Mocking a man who was murdered onstage in front of the nation isn’t clever commentary. It isn’t social justice. It’s cruel… and it’s disgusting.
And anyone who cheers this result, no matter how fashionable it might feel in their peer group — they end up covered in the same mud.
Because there’s a wide, bright line between free speech and smallness of spirit.
And this county just witnessed the difference, clear as day.
And that’s the week!
Thanks for sticking with us. We are genuinely thankful for you — and for this whole glorious mess that keeps Williamson rolling.
We’ll drop a segment or two before Turkey Day, but we’re taking next Friday off to snooze on the couch. So whatever you’re cooking, wherever you’re headed, however many relatives you’re pretending to like — have a wonderful holiday.
Enjoy the weekend.
We’ll talk soon, friends.
