January 6th Suckers Get Played Again. At least they have their DOGE checks...

by Rick Wilson - Jun 2

Picture it.

You stormed the Capitol. You used bear spray on a cop, shat in the Rotunda, hunted for Mike Pence, or you just milled around in your Temu Tactical gear demanding Nancy Pelosi’s whereabouts…and you got caught.

I mean, it was rather inevitable since most of the January 6th Trumphadis either streamed their crimes, admitted them on social media, or were caught yucking it up on a million camera feeds and they tried to burn down the Republic.

And many, many of you. rightly. went to jail.

Let’s be clear: you fucking deserved it.

You were never heroes. You were criminals. Terrorists. Insurrectionists with violence and the overthrow of a free and fair election on your miserable, vicious, moronic agenda.

He pardoned all of you, even the ones who deserved a more kinetic and deadly response that day. He ended some of your long prison sentences. Many of you were wrecked financially…and you deserved it.

For many, the stain of being a January 6th terrorist meant you lost jobs, family connections…and, again, you deserved it.

All of you know you belong in jail, at some deep level.

But the last couple weeks have been good, right?

Because the word went out. There was going to be money. Real money. A $1.8 billion “Anti-Weaponization Fund,” a glittering, gold-leaf taxpayer-funded piñata, and you, patriot, were going to swing the bat and collect.

Enrique Tarrio told PBS he figures he’s owed tens of millions. Tens of millions. The man is doing the math on his yacht right now.

And then, on a Friday, one judge named Leonie Brinkema picked up a pen and the whole thing seized up like a Cybertruck in a car wash.

No commission. No claims. No checks. Just a June 12 hearing and the slow dawning horror, across a thousand mildewy basements and sad tract houses, that you have once again, with the reliability of a Swiss watch, fallen for Trump’s line of bullshit.

You should have seen this coming, because the pattern is older than most of your felonies. Welcome to the Trump Suckers Club, gentlemen. The dues are steep and the membership is permanent.

The list of his lies is, by now, asymptomatically approaching infinity.

He told you Mexico would pay for the wall. Mexico did not pay for the wall. He told you the coal jobs were coming back. The coal jobs did not come back. He told you he had a health care plan, two weeks away, always two weeks away, a beautiful plan, the best plan, a plan that exists in the same dimension as his tax returns and his SAT scores. He told you he’d release the Epstein files. For the last 2 months he’s been telling you the very real Iran War is over, done, settled, done and duste.

He told you a lot of things. The through-line of this man’s entire public life, the one consistent principle in a sea of grift and chaos, is that the check is always in the mail.

But cheer up. It’s not all bad. Because you’ve got options.

You’ve got those DOGE dividend checks coming. Remember those? The $5,000 “efficiency” rebate Elon promised back when he was still allowed in the building? Any day now.

You’ve got your tariff refund checks, the magical rebate from the trade war you’re somehow paying for at the grocery store, the cost of which has been described by the administration as both nonexistent and a great patriotic sacrifice. And you’ve got your health care refund checks, which is a phrase I’m fairly sure someone just invented on a podcast last week but which now lives rent-free in the imagination of a Facebook Uncle in Ohio who is absolutely certain it’s real.

Or perhaps you could sell some of your Trump crypto. Or your Trump NFTs. Or slap those Trump sneakers on eBay. I mean…Donald Trump would never take advantage of you…right?

Add it all up and you’re practically rich. On paper. The paper being a damp cocktail napkin on a table at bar near the White House where Boris Epshteyn mutters orders quietly to Todd Blanche and Blanche’s head bobs up and down like one of those dashboard dogs.

Here’s the part where I’m supposed to feel for you, and I want to be honest about my own limitations as a human being: I don’t.

I give exactly zero fucks for your imaginary suffering and well-deserve loss. I have no emotion for you beyond contempt and revulsion.

Not even a little.

Because none of you were owed a dime. The fund was never about justice. It was a slush fund, a loyalty bribe, taxpayer money laundered through a fake lawsuit Trump filed against his own government to compensate the people who beat cops with flagpoles in his name.

You didn’t deserve a payout. You deserved a longer sentence. Many of the most violent of you deserved someone to declare “weapons free” on that terrible day. Mike Fanone, Harry Dunn, Danny Hodges, and many, many more officers attacked that day, the ones who actually bled, had to go to court to stop you from getting paid for trying to kill them.

And here’s the kicker, the detail that should sting the worst for a movement that never shuts up about strength and testosterone and alpha-male sigma-grindset Andrew Tate bleating.

Your god-emperor, your tariff-wielding strongman, your two-scoops Caesar, got stopped cold by one Clinton appointee in one Virginia courtroom on one ordinary Friday afternoon and just rolled over.

One judge said maintain the status quo, and the whole $1.8 billion edifice just deflated. No fight. No appeal that mattered yet. Just a slow, sad hiss.

That’s not strength. That’s the political equivalent of a guy who talks about his deadlift for forty-five minutes and then asks you to carry the groceries. The duck gets more lame by the day.

So pour one out, fellas.

Frame the indictment. Hang the mugshot. You earned those. The money was always going to be someone else’s. It’s always going to be someone else’s. That’s the deal, and it’s the only deal he’s ever actually kept.

See you at the next meeting.