Governor Abbott,

Bless Your Heart, That’s Not How Quorums Work.

Governor Abbott,

You’ve been making the rounds on this redistricting stunt like a man trying to sell brisket that’s been sitting out at an August tailgate — shouting that it’s prime cut, while everyone wrinkles their nose because they know better. You keep waving around Ken Paxton’s non‑binding AG opinion like it’s the deed to the King Ranch, but “non‑binding” in Texas is just a fancy way of saying “bless your heart, that don’t mean a damn thing.” It’s a paper hat in a hailstorm, Greg, and you’re the only one pretending it’s a Stetson.

You’ve sicced DPS troopers on Democrats like they’re rustlers stealing the herd, but once they cross into Illinois, your posse hits the legal equivalent of a Buc‑ee’s parking lot on Labor Day — gridlocked, going nowhere, and wondering why they even left home. This ain’t the OK Corral, it’s a Luby’s cafeteria fight where you showed up late and still managed to spill the Jell‑O. “Hunt them down,” you say, but you’ve got all the range of a high school homecoming parade float — looks loud from the sidewalk, but it’s moving five miles an hour tops.

Meanwhile, folks are still cleaning up from the floods from early July. Families lost their houses, people lost their lives, and you’re in Austin fiddling with congressional maps like you’re drawing plays for a football team that never wins. That’s not leadership, Greg — that’s skipping out on actual governance so you can sit in the air‑conditioning and Sharpie new boundaries for Donald Trump. It’s the political version of leaving your buddy’s barbecue early to go microwave a frozen corndog for someone who wouldn’t invite you to theirs.

Your “come back and face me” routine might scare a sophomore during a pep rally, but Democrats saw you for what you are, a puffed up quarterback who just realized the marching band stole his helmet. You can’t cross that state line, and everybody knows it — you’re the sheriff whose badge don’t shine past the Whataburger drive‑thru. You’re hollering at the stadium from the parking lot, Greg, and the game’s already in the third quarter without you.

And this map? Saying it’s “politically based, not race‑based” is like bragging your chili only tastes like dishwater for people wearing blue jeans. You’re still serving garbage, you’ve just decided to limit who gets a bowl. Gerrymandering isn’t a Texas tradition — it’s a cheap carnival trick, and right now you’re the guy in the booth guessing weights wrong all afternoon while pretending you’re a genius. Texans can spot a rigged game faster than they can spot a fake Dr Pepper.

The truly pitiful part is you’re not even running the cookout — you’re bussing tables for Donald Trump. He calls, and you’re there with five fresh districts on a platter. Every “warrant” you wave around is flimsier than a folding chair at the State Fair, and every trooper you send after these lawmakers is on a goose chase fit for a bad sitcom. You’re not leading this cattle drive, Greg — you’re the guy holding the gate open for someone else’s herd.

So here’s the truth, Greg: you’ve turned the Governor’s Mansion into a service counter for Donald Trump’s wish list, trading Texas grit for the hollow satisfaction of hearing him say your name. You’ve mistaken a borrowed map and an empty threat for power, and now you’re finding out that in the big arena of Texas history, you’re not the main event — you’re the sideshow. Long after you’ve gone, folks won’t talk about your victories; they’ll remember you as the man who mistook bluster for strength, parked himself under the spotlight, and still managed to disappear.

— Rook T. Winchester

Editor‑in‑Chief, Closer to the Edge

P.S. You can send all the troopers you want, Greg. You can wave your paper warrants and bark into the cameras. But in the eyes of Texans who know a real leader from a yard‑ornament cowboy, you’ve already lost. And no map you draw will ever redraw that truth.

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