Texas Declares War on Gummies While Everything Else Burns

Welcome to Texas, where brisket is sacred, cattle are legendary, and state lawmakers have identified the gravest threat to civilization: watermelon-flavored hemp gummies. The legislature moved faster against peach rings than it ever has for failing schools or collapsing hospitals, treating candy-coated CBD like a national emergency.

This is how politics works in 2025. A resident can legally stockpile enough firearms to outfit a small militia, but sell a hemp chew in a bag without a padlock and alarms, and suddenly you’re Pablo Escobar with a Shopify account.

The ban arrived buried inside a must-pass spending bill, concealed like contraband under the floorboards. No hearings. No debate. No transparency. A stealth amendment detonated inside a budget bill as if THC gummies were plotting a coup. A sudden, sweeping ban on nearly all consumable hemp products—wedged between routine budget lines like a legislative booby trap.

None of this happened by accident. Texas leadership never misses a culture-war stage cue. While teachers, nurses, city officials, and exhausted families begged for stable policy and functional governance, lawmakers performed a morality play called Reefer Madness 2: The Gummy Strikes Back. The same politicians who once celebrated the hemp industry as an “innovative economic engine” spun around and declared it a public threat because pastel candy shapes offended the donor class.

The economic fallout arrived overnight. Farms, processors, retailers, logistics companies—wiped out with one signature. Neighboring states are already pouring sweet tea for displaced hemp businesses and drafting handwritten thank-you notes to Texas leadership. Nothing says job creation like shipping your jobs to Oklahoma.

The official excuse? Safety. Protecting the children. Preventing disorder. Adorable logic from a government that insists adults should regulate themselves with assault weapons but apparently cannot survive contact with grape-flavored Delta-9 without federal witness protection protocols. Texans can walk into a sporting goods store and buy enough ammunition to rearrange the landscape, but a cherry-lime CBD chew now demands biometric locks and a security escort.

This isn’t policy. This is performance art. The Capitol transformed into a content studio where laws are props and outrage is currency. Evidence, public hearings, and economic analysis lost their place to social-media theatrics and donor satisfaction charts. Spectacle won. Substance lost. Texans pay the price.

Meanwhile, real needs rot in the corner. Schools starve, rural hospitals close, infrastructure splits at the seams, property taxes swallow paychecks. Lawmakers sprinted past every urgent crisis to wage war on fruit flavors.

The quiet truth: none of this concerns gummies. It concerns distraction. Manufactured victory laps. A mechanism to shout “Look what we did!” when the scoreboard reads zero. Collapse a legal industry, kill thousands of jobs, push a regulated market into the shadows, and call it moral clarity.

Texans deserve leadership that distinguishes between legitimate issues and convenient boogeymen. We deserve policymaking that unfolds in daylight, not on page 437 of a midnight budget dump. We deserve seriousness.

That won’t float down from Austin like bluebonnet seeds. People must demand it. Confront absurdity. Refuse the clown show. Vote with intention.

Because today, Texas cannot balance a budget, but it can assassinate an entire legal industry before lunchtime.

If anything needs legalization around here, it’s watermelon-flavored common sense.

Stay political. Stay informed. This clown car didn’t slow down—someone hit the gas.

@Janie

@alvarezjanie

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