So, maga rioters.

How you doin’ today? It’s the first hour of the rest of your lives and the pardons never came. You lost and there’s nothing sunny in your forecast.

Two weeks ago you hit your high water mark but now the indictments are coming in and the counts have 20 years on the topline.

You were all so sure of your victory that you went off and broadcast your deeds in what will be the easiest convictions ever.

No jury in the world will find you either sympathetic or believable and your best hope at defense, obscurity, went out the window when you decided to migrate to a social media platform built by amateurs in some misguided effort to stick it to the libs and Jack Dorsey.

You spent so much time chasing antifa ghosts that you never stopped to consider that the people who would circuit break your little party were friends, family, and coworkers, all of whom you tormented unapologetically for four years and who are fully over your bullshit.

Your best outcome will probably be to plea out and hope for a favorable selection of a long term facility, which you’ll be spending the entirety of the next presidential election at, too.

You pinned your hopes and fates on the one man who probably hates you more than any antifa ever will—Donald Trump, and what do you now have to show for it?

Endless crushing anxiety waiting for that knock on the door by a man in a blue windbreaker

And the worst part? The worst part is you have no idea when that will happen. Today, tomorrow, next year. You climbed the scaffolding only to install a sword of damocles over your own heads, and didn’t even have the sense to flex any power while you were at it.

What a fitting end you have, whimpering and crying, telling fables about BLM and martial law to scare yourselves at night. Good riddance, don’t come back. The rest of us have real work to do.