Some states have political disagreements. Others have lawsuits. Texas, however, prefers its disputes served with an extra-large glass of iced tea, a dash of high drama, and a courtroom appearance that smells faintly of barbecue smoke and contempt of decorum.
The latest entry into this Lone Star political rodeo? Attorney General Ken Paxton’s lawsuit to declare the seats of 13 absent Democratic state representatives vacant. Their crime? The mortal sin of skipping out on a special session. Not to binge-watch Netflix. Not to summer in the Hamptons. Not even to have the kind of midlife crisis where you buy a motorcycle and a leather jacket and start referring to yourself in the third person. No — they left to block a Republican-led redistricting plan they claimed would make voter suppression look like a quaint art form.
And they didn’t just leave the chamber. They left the state. They went full political exile, crossing state lines like fugitives in a made-for-TV drama about “legislators on the run.” Their location? California, the sworn nemesis of Texas conservatives, where they could hide behind organic juice bars, rent-controlled apartments, and the comforting knowledge that the Whataburger drive-thru is a thousand miles away.
Paxton, naturally, was not amused. To hear him tell it, the Democrats had committed the legislative equivalent of abandoning a litter of kittens on the side of the highway. “Abandonment of duties,” he called it. Which is rich, coming from a man who has been under indictment for securities fraud for roughly the length of a high school education.
But here’s where it gets Texas-sized dramatic: Paxton didn’t just call them cowards, scoundrels, or Benedict Arnolds with better haircuts. He sued them. He also sued the fundraising efforts that helped pay for their exile, because in his view, not only should they not be allowed to skip work, they also shouldn’t be able to afford snacks while doing it. And then, like a man in a Western who just discovered the concept of overkill, Paxton sought enforcement of arrest warrants in California.
Yes, you read that right: Texas is trying to extradite people for not showing up to a meeting.
Imagine if this logic extended to your own life. Miss a Zoom call because your Wi-Fi died? The sheriff shows up to your door in Arizona with a warrant. Call in sick because you have the flu? A SWAT team rappels through your window. Ask for PTO to attend your sister’s wedding? Sorry, the FBI will see you now.
And let’s be real: the optics here are a masterclass in irony. Thirteen elected officials flee the state to stop a political maneuver they see as undemocratic, and the top lawman of Texas responds by… trying to erase their seats entirely. It’s like watching someone pour gasoline on a house fire because they heard water was “woke.”
But the pièce de résistance is Paxton’s performance of moral outrage, a performance so unconvincing it makes community theater look like Broadway. This is the same Ken Paxton who has, shall we say, a “complicated” relationship with legal ethics. His résumé includes more ongoing investigations than a Netflix true-crime catalog. The fact that he’s now positioning himself as the high priest of legislative attendance is almost admirable in its audacity.
Of course, the Republicans argue that the Democrats were abandoning their constituents, leaving Texans without representation. Which sounds noble, except the whole reason the Democrats bailed was because they believed those constituents’ votes were about to be sliced, diced, and shuffled into congressional districts designed to keep one party in permanent power. When you frame it that way, “abandonment” starts to look more like “rescue mission.”
The truth is, Texas politics has always been a theater of the absurd, and this is just the latest act. The state’s special sessions are like family reunions — everyone dreads going, nobody really wants to be there, but if you don’t show up, Aunt Ken will send a lawyer to declare you dead to her.
And Paxton, bless his litigious little heart, has taken the role of the overbearing relative who insists on reading the will at the dinner table, except in this case, the “will” is a gerrymandered map of Texas that looks like it was drawn by a caffeinated toddler with a broken Etch A Sketch.
The Democrats, for their part, have framed themselves as martyrs for democracy. The Instagram posts from California featured earnest selfies in matching “Save Democracy” T-shirts, coffee cups with inspirational slogans, and the occasional palm tree in the background just to remind you they were suffering somewhere nice. They weren’t exactly in hiding. If anything, their absence was as choreographed as a Beyoncé halftime show.
The media, predictably, had a field day. Headlines screamed about “Political Chaos” and “Texas Showdown,” while cable news pundits tried to explain quorum rules to a viewing audience that was just there to see who would blink first. Spoiler alert: in Texas politics, no one ever blinks. They just squint harder.
But here’s the kicker: Paxton’s lawsuit isn’t just about these 13 seats. It’s about sending a message to every legislator who might dare pull a similar stunt in the future: Don’t even think about it. It’s about control, about making sure that the minority party can never use the only weapon it has left — absence — to slow the majority down. It’s about making the walls of the Texas Capitol feel less like a workplace and more like a containment facility.
Meanwhile, regular Texans — the ones paying for all this legal drama — are left wondering if maybe their tax dollars could be better spent on, I don’t know, fixing the power grid so it doesn’t collapse every time the weather gets spicy. But that’s the magic of political theater: while you’re busy watching the fight on stage, no one notices the set is literally on fire.
In the end, the whole thing feels like an allegory for Texas itself: big, loud, stubborn, a little ridiculous, and absolutely committed to doing things the hard way. The Democrats will eventually return, the maps will probably get redrawn, and Paxton will declare victory no matter the outcome. Because in Texas politics, as in Texas barbecue competitions, the only real rule is: whoever talks the loudest wins.
Final thought? If Ken Paxton really wants to solve the quorum problem, maybe he should sweeten the deal for attendance. Replace the redistricting maps with bingo cards. Cater the session with breakfast tacos. Turn the whole thing into a reality show called The Real Legislators of Austin. Just think: no more walkouts, ratings through the roof, and Paxton could still file all the lawsuits his heart desires. Everyone wins — except, of course, democracy.