🗞️ THE DUMP — OCTOBER 24, 2025

Your weekly look at the weird, the wild, and Williamson County

Oct 24, 2025

Hey neighbor — how the heck are ya?
Friday’s back and the week’s in our rearview. Why don’t you pull up a chair, and settle in for your weekly spin through the weird, the wild, and Williamson County?

This week, we’ve got a man-bun taking on a machine, a phone ban brewing in our schools, and a mayor’s race that already feels like I-65 at rush hour. We’ll swing by Franklin, where annexation math is on deck, peek at PumpkinFest, and wrap it up with a little talk about oaths and selective outrage.

Sound like a full plate? It is. Grab your fork — let’s dump it out.

ROBBY VS. THE MACHINE: GOOGLE GETS A LAWSUIT

Well bless our digital hearts — it finally happened. Somebody went and sued the robots.

Hold on to your hairnets, folks — the man bun is mad.

Conservative firebrand Robby Starbuck, the guy who’s been fighting DEI like it keyed his Tesla, just declared legal war on Google. In a new Delaware Superior Court filing, Starbuck claims Google’s AI children — Bard, Gemini, and Gemma — have been busy writing whole true-crime fanfics about his life. And not the entertaining kind. We’re talking fabricated rape charges, Epstein flight logs, and therapy notes for imaginary victims in imaginary courtrooms.

According to the complaint, Google’s bots didn’t just “hallucinate.” They lied. They made up citations, headlines, and fake police records out of thin silicon. One AI even allegedly conjured statements condemning Starbuck from Elon Musk, Donald Trump, and J.D. Vance — all of whom were probably just as surprised to read them as he was.

Starbuck says this wasn’t random static — it was political, and odds are, he’s right.

His lawyers started firing off cease-and-desist letters back in 2023. Google sipped its kombucha, called it a “data anomaly,” and kept roasting marshmallows over the fire it started.

Now Starbuck’s not just asking for $15 million — he’s demanding something Big Tech’s never had to give: accountability.

Google spokesperson, José Castañeda, waved the corporate incense and chanted the usual poetry: “We are aware of hallucinations and continue to improve our systems.”

Translation: We told the robot not to lie. It lied anyway.

This isn’t Starbuck’s first rodeo. Earlier this year he sued Meta, claiming its chatbot accused him of being a January 6 rioter and a Holocaust denier. That case ended in a settlement and a brief stint as Meta’s “AI bias advisor” — a title that sounds suspiciously like “guy who sued us and now tells us not to do that again.”

So here he is, round two — this time against the mothership itself. And the stakes aren’t just about one man’s reputation; they’re about whether any of us still own ours. Because this case doesn’t just test defamation law — it tests whether you can sue the future for slander.

In the old days, if someone in town spread a lie, you could walk up, knock on the door, and have a proper come-to-Jesus conversation. But what do you do when the liar doesn’t have a face — just a logo, a trillion data points, and a customer-service form that promises a response “within 30 business days”? When the gossip mill isn’t powered by people but by a humming server farm in Oregon?

Starbuck’s warning hits hard:

“If we don’t win this fight, AI will define who you are to the rest of the world. You better hope it likes you.”

He’s not wrong. Because if a billion-dollar algorithm can smear you with ones and zeros, what happens when a Williamson County mom Googles your name before the next PTO election? When chatbot gossip becomes “credible sourcing”? When the internet stops remembering who you are and starts remembering what it decided you were?

WW BOTTOM LINE
AI might remember every lyric you ever Googled, but it doesn’t know truth. And if a robot ever calls you a criminal, remember this much: it can’t raise its right hand, it can’t swear an oath, and it sure as sin can’t show up in court — but you can.

📱 BELL-TO-BELL BLUES: WILLIAMSON COUNTY UNPLUGS (ALMOST)

Parents, this is your warning: if you’re used to a mid-day “forgot my cleats” text from little Johnny, or the classic “bring McNuggets, I left my lunch” emergency, start packing extra socks and nuggets now. The Williamson County School Board looks ready to go bell-to-bell, away-for-the-day, and barring a sudden outbreak of backbone, it’s basically a done deal.

The board voted 11–1 on Monday night to move the policy forward — and to delay enforcement until next school year. The catch? It’s not law yet. This was only the first reading — a policy half-marathon where everyone stops at mile thirteen, takes a deep breath, and says, “We’ll finish later.” The final vote comes in November.

Board member Claire Reeves came armed for digital detox. She didn’t just quote studies — she brought props, hoisting up an image of a teenager literally being “sucked into her phone.” Subtle as a sledgehammer, but the message landed: the kids are losing to the machines. The remedy? Phones off, away, and exorcised from daylight itself. No thumb-twitching under the desk, no Snapchat sermons during chemistry, no pretending to “check the time” while checking your reflection. It’s not about punishment, Reeves insists — it’s about focus, discipline, and saving a few adolescent brain cells before they’re permanently formatted for infinity scroll.

Her amendment to delay enforcement was a nod to reality — giving the district time to figure out how parents will reach their kids without triggering DEFCON 1. But make no mistake: the direction is set. Even the mild-mannered board chair, Josh Brown, who said he was fine with phones at lunch, didn’t fight the current.

So unless something wild happens at the November 17 second reading, parents should prepare for a quieter school day and a whole lot more “we’ll talk about it when you get home.”

WW BOTTOM LINE
The district hasn’t banned phones yet, but it’s dialing up for impact. Call it parental tough love or a forced digital cleanse — either way, the bell’s about to ring, and Johnny’s not texting back.

🚦 TRAFFIC AHEAD: THE 2026 MAYOR’S RACE IS ALREADY BACKED UP

And just like that, the race for Williamson County Mayor is off — and already looks like a three-car pileup with another vehicle trying to merge. No yard signs yet, but the engines are humming, the consultants are circling, and you can already hear the sound of ambition grinding its gears.

First off the line is Todd Kaestner, the former county commissioner and healthcare executive who wants to “protect and preserve” Williamson County from turning into, well, anywhere else. His pitch is steady — low taxes, careful growth, more deputies — the sort of campaign that promises to keep the porch lights on, the grass trimmed, and the county line exactly where it’s always been.

Hot on his heels is Brandon Ogles, the former state representative making a hometown return with talk of slowing growth and keeping Williamson County’s character intact. He’s betting that experience and familiarity still count for something in a county where most folks say they want change — as long as it doesn’t mess with school zones or property values.

Then comes Mary Smith, the commissioner known for grinding through budgets like a woman trying to find the receipt. She’s made a habit of revisiting old allocations and questioning where the dollars go — sometimes to the frustration of her colleagues. Her campaign leans on fiscal discipline, debt reduction, and government transparency, which is polite campaign-speak for “expect more meetings.”

And if the chatter’s right, there’s a fourth contender still idling in the lot — waiting for the right moment to move. One or two more, and this race starts to look like I-65 at rush hour: crowded, slow, and full of people convinced they have the right of way.

For now, the themes are clear — everyone loves old Williamson County, whatever that means, and “growth” remains the filthiest word in town.

WW BOTTOM LINE
The mayor’s race is getting crowded, and we’re not even out of October. Kaestner’s the steady hand, Smith’s the watchdog, and Ogles is the comeback kid. Whoever else jumps in better bring a good horn and a full tank — because this caravan’s only getting louder from here.

📰 ANNEXATION NATION: FRANKLIN INVENTS A GROWTH-O-METER

Like calculators? You’re gonna love this: the City of Franklin just rolled out a shiny new toy for everyone’s favorite civic topic — annexation. Yes, the word that makes developers grin, homeowners panic, and planners reach for the Advil.

At last week’s BOMA Work Session, the city’s budget wizards unveiled something called the Annexation Cost Analysis Calculator — or, as staff affectionately dubbed it, the ACAC (pronounced “ack-ack,” as in the sound you make when you realize another field on Clovercroft just sprouted rooftops).

It’s a supersized spreadsheet designed to reveal what new development really costs Franklin — from sewer lines to squad cars to one more stretch of sidewalk nobody will shovel — against what it actually brings in. In short, it’s the city’s latest attempt to answer the old Southern riddle: does growth pay for itself, or are we just footing the bill for somebody else’s cul-de-sac?

The board seemed impressed, even a little proud. But Alderman Greg Caesar tapped the brakes with a well-placed warning:

“One word of caution — because we know this will never be exactly right — is that we not use this as a thumbs up or thumbs down based on revenue for the city. I want to caution us not to look at this as a way for us to make money on the projects that come into our city.”

Fair point. After all, nobody wants to see Franklin’s growth model turn into a fiscal firing squad. Still, the idea of putting hard numbers behind the “how much is too much” debate feels like a new era in local politics — one where spreadsheets might finally do what slogans can’t.

WW BOTTOM LINE
The ACAC isn’t policy yet, but it’s coming. Soon, every annexation pitch will come with a price tag, and every “just a few more homes” request will come with an equation. It might not stop the rooftops from rising, but it’ll at least show what they’re costing the rest of us.
Franklin finally brought a calculator to a zoning fight. Let’s see if math still counts.

🎃 IT’S THE GREAT PUMPKIN

Franklin’s 40th Annual PumpkinFest rolls into downtown this Saturday (10 a.m.–6 p.m.), and you know what that means: more than 100,000 people, six blocks of booths, and at least one kid crying by the face-painting tent.

It’s Middle Tennessee’s biggest fall party — 150+ vendors, live music, pumpkin carving, and costume contests for both humans and pets. The whole thing’s a glorious mash-up of cider and seasonal mayhem.

If you’ve got young kids, it’s a full day of memories (and mild meltdowns — go ahead, you can give them fudge before lunch). If you’re past that stage, it’s a spectator sport: pumpkin-flavored people-watching at its finest.

WW BOTTOM LINE
Come for the pumpkins, stay for the chaos — and remember, nothing tests love like maneuvering a double stroller down Main Street.

📝 FINAL FLUSH: OF OATHS AND OUTRAGE

Let’s talk about the school board. Because if you’ve listened to some folks lately, you’d think they uncovered Watergate in the textbook section.

This all goes back to the science curriculum vote last spring — when the teachers’ committee picked one textbook and the board, after its own review, chose another. The board moved on, but the critics didn’t. They filed a complaint, lost, and have spent every moment since trying to turn that loss into a scandal.

Now the latest fixation is the oath. Oh, the oath.

At last week’s work session, board member Melissa Wyatt asked, “Is there a consideration to add that the board members would take the oath like the textbook committee members would take — should we be included in that?”

Superintendent Jason Golden, whose calm could qualify as an emergency management skill, gave an immediate answer: there’s no need for that. Board members already take an oath of office when they’re sworn in — the one required by state law.

You’d think that would’ve ended it. But by Monday night, the same script came back — this time from the public comment podium. Holly Algood and Valerie Diblee, both signers of July’s formal reconsideration complaint, repeated Wyatt almost word-for-word. They demanded to know why the “ex officio” board member hadn’t signed the same oath as the committee. They hinted that maybe the whole process was tainted.

Let’s just say Algood and Diblee didn’t wander into those talking points by accident — their remarks tracked Wyatt’s down to the syllable.

But here’s the thing: thanks to Golden, everyone already knows the answer. Board members swear an oath when they’re elected — not to a committee, but to the people. It’s the one that binds them to uphold the Constitution and serve the public interest. They don’t need to swear a second oath to prove they meant the first.

And let’s not forget — these are the same people, Algood and Diblee included, who spent 2020 urging the district to keep masks on, track every cough, and lock kids behind laptop screens. The same people who helped turn classrooms into Zoom rooms and then wonder why test scores fell through the floor. Now they’re lecturing about responsibility and process? Sure.

This isn’t about integrity. It’s not even about policy. It’s about losing an argument and trying to repackage it as ethics.

State law is clear. Under Tennessee Code §49-6-2207, textbook committees review and recommend — but the elected board makes the final call. Their discretion is written into law. The committee’s oath covers honesty in review; the board’s oath covers accountability to voters. The distinction isn’t corruption. It’s called representative government.

And yet here we are again, watching the same handful of people turn redundancy into righteousness. So no — this isn’t accountability. It’s pettiness.

Board members already took the oath. They don’t need to do it twice to soothe anyone’s bruised ego. And no one believes this is about ethics. It’s about people who can’t stand that someone finally told them no.

So here it is again, just so everyone’s clear: no. The answer is still no. There are no do-overs. No take-backsies. Time to move on.

Well, there you have it, friends — another dump.
Enjoy PumpkinFest, and keep your annexation calculators handy. We’ll see you next week, same porch, same day. Until then — keep your phones off and your grace intact.

Stay neighborly, stay nosy, and stay tuned. Have a great weekend, Williamson.

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