BSO Sheriff Gregory Tony just took to Facebook to tell Deerfield Beach residents he’s leaving because the Mayor and Commissioners voted him out.
Buzz buzz.
Wrong. In the immortal words of a former game show host, now turned president wanna be strongman — yer fired.
To some, this is a tragedy, a goddamn travesty. Over here, it’s a contract expiration.
G’s crocodile tears are something, though. A Sheriff who billed bilked Deerfield Beach for years, set the rates, controlled the staffing, and held the city’s public safety infrastructure hostage is now the victim? The man who charges $96 an hour at the Delta terminal and $80 at Port Everglades can’t understand why a city might want to control its own destiny?
I remember once, coming in really hot, landing in Orlando. Stewie gets on the blower — checked with the pilot, wasn’t his fault. Checked with the right seat. Ditto, not HER fault. Must have been the asphalt.
Speaking of the ass’s fault —
As a teenager, G shot and killed someone. Lied about it. Then years later decided eating some ‘shrooms were a reasonable lifestyle choice — and somehow none of this appeared on his application to become Broward’s top law enforcement officer. Not on the resume. Not in the interview. Right there after “references available upon request” — the blank where “popped a cap in a guy, lied about it, later tripped balls and jammed out to the Village People” probably should have gone. We’re not relitigating 1993. We’re asking why the application was clean.
Editor’s Note: Come on now. Do you really think “killed a dude in the 90s” was going to go over well with the ladies in HR?
That’s a transparency argument. Which is funny, because transparency is Tony’s whole thing right now.
Remarkable career arc, G.
Maybe also don’t scare the living hell out of the former cop and current City Manager — forcing a grown man to bivouac in his living room worried he’d end up in Alligator Alcatraz. Not sure what page of Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends that’s from, but maybe less Peruvian marching powder next time. To be fair, the G-Man has already capped one person in his life. Not exactly breaking new ground.
The city came to you, hat in hand, and asked to keep BSO Fire while standing up a local police department. Reasonable. Smart. The kind of phased approach grown-ups use when managing a major transition.
You told us to take a flying leap. Then started chucking grenades.
So, we left. And I started returning fire.
You don’t get to slam the door in someone’s face and then cry about which way they walked. Suck it up, buttercup.
Now — competitive salaries. G loves this subject.
For years BSO deputies weren’t paid competitive wages. Tony blamed Brimlow. Blamed the asphalt. Blamed Deerfield Beach. Made the city public enemy number one. When the commission didn’t cave, they were corrupt. No integrity. Brimlow filed a false police report, Tony announced — said he could arrest him anytime.
Big talk from a man with an interesting résumé.
Seven years. That’s how long Gregory Tony has been Broward Sheriff. Deputy salaries are his job. Retention is his watch. Recruitment gaps are his desk. He had seven years to fix this and it’s always landing on somebody else’s runway — the city’s fault, Brimlow’s fault, the commission’s fault, a rogue pelican’s fault. Anyone’s fault but the guy whose name is on the door.
Did we, yet, mention the asphalt?
Speaking of the door — also the shower curtains, the fancy condoms, the urinal cakes, and the motivational posters featuring Gregory Tony’s own quotations throughout the $73.7 million BSO training center he built in Fort Lauderdale.
“Some men leave behind statues. Some men leave behind legacies. I left behind 847 framed photographs, a motivational mural, and a cold plunge tub. You’re welcome, Broward County.”
— Sheriff Gregory Tony, ribbon cutting ceremony
Now, opulence in a public building isn’t exactly a new Broward Sheriff tradition. Decades ago, Nick Navarro had the audacity to install gold bathroom fixtures at BSO headquarters. I get it, I do. I’ve personally conducted my own business on the gold toilet at the Guggenheim and there is something undeniably civilizing about rare metal beneath your cheeks as you go about your affairs. But Navarro was working with fixtures. Tony went full catalog. The man didn’t just gild the lily — he laminated it, branded it, and hung a portrait of himself next to it.
Originally pitched at $34 million, the training center’s final tab landed at $73.7 million. A county audit found a $7.5 million wellness center tucked in through back-door change orders without County Commission approval. Sauna. Cold plunge tub. High-end amenities for the troops — you know, the ones who couldn’t get a competitive salary. Not for you and me, mind you. We’re stuck with Planet Fitness while we foot the $73.7 million bar tab.
Over $550,000 alone went to branding. That must have been one fucking insane Zazzle invoice. Blown-up portraits dolls of the G Man. Quotations on the walls, name and doctoral degree on logos plastered throughout the building.
All done on your tax dollar.
You paid for it.
Happy?
The man built himself a monument and sent his deputies the bill.
This brings us to Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, the Muppet Labs scientist who confidently announces experiments that keep exploding in everyone else’s face. Honeydew is serene. Honeydew is certain. Honeydew has never personally suffered a single consequence. His assistant Beaker — nervous, underpaid, perpetually on fire — absorbs every disaster with a long, high-pitched scream. The nearly hundred million dollar training center is the lab. The sauna tiles are the latest experiment. The deputies waiting on raises they were promised are Beaker. Gregory Tony, naturally, is Honeydew. Calm. Confident. Already composing the next Facebook post.
The county auditor found that somewhere between $4.8 million and $8.6 million originally earmarked for personnel salaries — detention, fire rescue, law enforcement — got redirected to cover the construction overruns. So, when Tony stands on Facebook telling Deerfield Beach residents his deputies weren’t paid competitively because of Rodney Brimlow, understand what actually happened. He raided the salary budget to finish his spa and hang his own portrait on the wall.
The Village People were unavailable for comment. Understandable. Their schedule is packed — the YMCA doesn’t maintain itself, and frankly, after learning their biggest fan blew the deputy salary budget on a cold plunge tub and his own portrait, even they have standards. Sources close to the group indicate they are reviewing their association with law enforcement imagery. The construction foreman, however, was reached for comment. He said the sauna tiles were fabulous.
Really bruh … we’re just not that into you anymore. Get over it.
Tony told a resident — to her face — that her Mayor and Commissioners voted him out. True. He said it deliberately, to a civilian, knowing exactly how it would land. He’s not informing residents. He’s running a pressure campaign with a sad face on it. The 70% polling number he keeps waving around — sure, residents were polled, the commission weighed it and made a different call. That’s representative democracy. Elected officials aren’t bound by informal polling — they’re bound by their judgment and ultimately the ballot box. His offer to fund an “independent analysis”? BSO would have picked the scope, the vendor, and the timeline. That’s not independence — that’s theater with a checkbook.
Here’s the thing about dominoes. If Deerfield succeeds, Dania Beach starts asking questions. Then Weston. Then Parkland. Dr. Honeydew can count and he doesn’t like the math.
Deerfield Beach isn’t leaving because the commission hates cops. They’re leaving because Rodney Brimlow looked at what the city was getting versus what it was paying and said we can do better. The commission agreed. They ran a process, took a vote, made a call.
BSO has its Deerfield allies.
The Nolands and their deep six-figure/year compensation packages. Hella Herz. John “Dog Fight Club” Slobbery. A merry band of misfits, reliably showing up to carry water for a Sheriff who couldn’t pass his own background check.
He’s smiling and giving you the finger at the same time, you fucking rubes.
Me? I’ve got a mostly decent City Commission (two-and-a-half outta five ain’t bad), a City Manager who stayed frosty under pressure, and a well-developed habit of shining lights into the deep crevices of bullshit in the public square.
Tony brought a Facebook post. I brought sarcasm and a public records request. These are not equivalent weapons. A Facebook post disappears into the algorithm in seventy-two hours, remembered only by the people who were already angry and the bots who liked it ironically. A public records request is a subpoena with better manners. It shows up at your door, asks nicely, and then just stands there until you answer. I’ve been filing them for fifteen years. I have never once lost patience. Gregory Tony, on the other hand, built a $73.7 million monument to his own patience running out.
Your born-on date expired, Gregory. We’ll send the skunky beer back to the vendor.
