How to create a unconditionally loyal MAGAtard:
have the FBI infiltrate their political protest and get them all arrested, then Pardon them right as you're elected
I am a J6er.
A Pardoned Patriot.
January 6th, 2021, was my first political event ever. I walked into the Capitol peacefully through the upper west terrace Senate Wing Entrance, the same spot and 23 seconds behind Ashlii Babbit — just 22 minutes inside. I saw no violence. I committed none. Officers stood by as citizens walked in and out on a handicap ramp. No signs. No warnings. I chanted “Stop the Steal” in the Crypt, wearing the shirt that simply said “Count ALL Legal Votes.” I went because I love my country and still believed our voices could matter.
Then the hammer fell.
In unprecedented persecution Twenty-four FBI agents came after a misdemeanor. They knocked while my family was sick with COVID. They raided my home. I self-surrendered in chains — leg irons, waist belt, handcuffed like a threat to the nation. Processed, fingerprinted, mugshot. A federal judge who called January 6th the worst occupation of the Capitol since the War of 1812 sentenced me to 30 days in prison and three years of probation for the “crime” of illegal picketing. I became the first person in Washington State ever sentenced to prison for it.
The propaganda hut machine unleashed hell. Fifty-seven hit pieces. Facebook and Airbnb deplatformed me overnight, destroying the real estate business I had built for a decade. My community turned its back. Both fathers who raised me disowned me — one called me a “fvcking insurrectionist” on the very day it happened. My little girl cried, terrified her daddy was going to prison. And while I sat in that halfway house — breathalyzed, strip searched, haunted by the sound of train whistles — my wife emailed me a Dear John letter. She wanted a divorce. The marriage I thought would last forever ended in the cold, isolated darkness of incarceration.
The grief was a black ocean, a heavy weighted blanket crushing me. It pulled me under night after night. I stood at the edge and seriously contemplated ending it all. The darkness whispered that the hate-filled leftists who still want J6ers dead had already won. But faith — raw, stubborn, saving faith in God — reached down and pulled me back from the abyss. I chose not to let them win. I chose to live. I chose to fight.
Tempered by that fire and reborn in the grace of faith, I have fallen deeply in love with a beautiful blonde farmgirl named. She stands with me in all things, her soul radiating “LOVE MORE” and a fierce loyalty to the soil. Together I am healing hands in the earth, lavender fields swaying like a living promise of renewal. In her love and in the sacred toil of the land, I have found a serenity I never thought possible after the storm.
To every J6er reading this: Rejoice! The best is yet to come.
We are rebuilding our lives from the ashes. We are reconciling with God and with ourselves. We are reintegrating into the fight — speaking truth, organizing, refusing to be silenced. The grief is still strong. We lost who we were, our careers, our businesses, our families, our peace. The non-stop hate and attacks rain down every single time we announce ourselves as J6ers. But we are not alone. And we are not defeated.
Fear and faith can’t live in the same house.
We were and are being forged in the flames God wants us to be.
We are rising stronger.
God Bless the J6ers!.