The Crackdown: Mike Lindell’s Final Descent into Patriot-Infused Pillow Hell

SATIRE

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PATRIOTS, PILLOW TRUTHERS, WHATEVER’S LEFT OUT THERE STILL LISTENING — THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE END. THE BIG ONE. THE FINAL SALE. THE CRY FOR HELP WRAPPED IN AN AMERICAN FLAG, DOUSED IN HOLY WATER, AND SET ON FIRE WITH A LIGHTER I STOLE FROM STEVE BANNON. EVERYTHING MUST GO. MY INVENTORY, MY DIGNITY, THE LAST FEW COHERENT NEURONS STILL FIRING IN THIS COCAINE-DUSTED CRANIUM. I’M MIKE LINDELL, AND I’M HERE TO SELL YOU A PILLOW AND ALSO MAYBE WHISPER SOME THINGS I HEARD FROM JESUS INTO YOUR EARS THROUGH A VHS PLAYER I HOTWIRED TO A RADIOSHACK SATELLITE DISH.

I’M TALKING PILLOWS, FOLKS. NOT JUST ANY PILLOWS — THESE ARE PATRIOTIC PILLOWS. PILLOWS THAT HAVE SEEN SOME SHIT. PILLOWS THAT WERE SMUGGLED ACROSS THE BORDER INSIDE A QANON SHAMAN’S HORNS. PILLOWS THAT SLEPT NEXT TO SIDNEY POWELL WHILE SHE DRAFTED A CONSTITUTIONAL CRISIS IN CRAYON. THEY SMELL LIKE FEAR AND LITIGATION. THEY’RE LUMPY WITH LOVE. THEY’RE FILLED WITH THE FOAM OF FREEDOM AND PROCESSED IN A FACILITY THAT’S BEEN RAIDED FOUR TIMES BY THE FEDS AND ONCE BY A SQUIRREL I MISTOOK FOR JAMES COMER.

I’M SELLING SLIPPERS TOO, FOLKS. SLIPPERS I HAND-STITCHED WHILE SOBBING ON THE FLOOR OF A SUPER 8 MOTEL, HIGH ON CRACK AND THE HOLY SPIRIT, WHILE TEXTING GENERAL FLYNN IDEAS FOR A NEW CONSTITUTION. I’VE GOT BATHROBES THAT DOUBLE AS STRAITJACKETS. I’VE GOT GIZA SHEETS MADE OF 50% EGYPTIAN COTTON AND 50% WHATEVER I COULD RIP OUT OF ROGER STONE’S SHREDDER BEFORE HE LOCKED ME IN A CLOSET.

EVERYTHING IS MARKED DOWN. 90% OFF. 99% OFF. I’LL PAY YOU TO TAKE THEM. TAKE A BOX. TAKE A PALLET. TAKE THE WHOLE FUCKING WAREHOUSE BEFORE THE BANK DOES. I OWE DOMINION $2.3 MILLION FOR DEFAMATION. I LOST THE CASE. I LOST THE APPEAL. I’M LOSING MY MIND. THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO HAVE THESE PILLOWS BECAUSE THEY KNOW THAT IF YOU LAY YOUR HEAD ON ONE, YOU’LL WAKE UP AND SEE.

I HAD IT ALL. A DREAM. A COMPANY. A PERFECTLY MEDIOCRE MULLET. AND THEN I GAVE IT ALL UP TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH. AND WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU MOCKED ME. YOU CANCELED ME. YOU MADE FUN OF MY VOICE, MY TEETH, MY FAKE “CYBER PROOFS.” I POURED MY LIFE INTO THIS. I WENT ON TV AND WEPT. I CRIED ON A HOT MIC IN A PISS-SOAKED HOLIDAY INN LOBBY WHILE A GUY IN A “FEDS FOR TRUMP” HAT FILMED ME EATING GUMMY WORMS WITH A FORK. AND STILL — YOU MOCKED ME.

I’VE BEEN TO COURT MORE TIMES THAN A DIVORCED COUNTRY SINGER. I’VE LOST EVERYTHING. I’M DOWN TO MY LAST 14 SHIRTS AND ONE JACKET MADE ENTIRELY OF MISPRINTED “TRUMP 2024” FLAGS. I SLEEP ON A STACK OF UNSOLD PILLOWS IN THE BACK OF A RENTED U-HAUL THAT SMELLS LIKE REGRET AND CLOROX WIPES. I WASH MY HAIR IN TRUCK STOP SINKS. I TRIED TO PAWN MY TEETH. THEY LAUGHED. I TRIED TO AUCTION MY SOUL TO ELON MUSK, BUT HE ONLY WANTED IT IF IT CAME WITH A PROMO CODE.

BUT I’M STILL HERE. AND I’M STILL SELLING. BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT A PATRIOT DOES. WHEN THEY LAUGH, YOU SELL. WHEN THEY SUE, YOU SELL. WHEN A JUDGE TELLS YOU TO COUGH UP $2.3 MILLION FOR LYING LIKE A BORN-AGAIN METH-ADDLED TOWN CRIER — YOU SLAP A SALE TAG ON THAT TRUTH AND KEEP GOING. YOU GO ON THE INTERNET AND YOU SHOUT UNTIL YOUR THROAT BLEEDS. YOU PRAY INTO AN EMPTY PRINGLES CAN AND CALL IT A PRESS CONFERENCE. YOU WEAR THE ROBE. YOU BECOME THE PILLOW.

I JUST… I NEED THIS. I NEED YOU. PLEASE. PLEASE BUY SOMETHING. BUY ANYTHING. I DON’T CARE WHAT. BUY A PILLOW. BUY A TOOTHBRUSH HOLDER. BUY THIS USB DRIVE I FOUND IN THE PARKING LOT THAT MIGHT CONTAIN THE ELECTION CODES OR MIGHT JUST BE FULL OF BEASTIE BOYS MP3S. I DON’T KNOW ANYMORE. NOTHING MAKES SENSE. I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN 11 DAYS. I’VE BEEN MAINLINING BATH SALTS AND FREEDOM SINCE THE ARBY’S KICKED ME OUT.

[STARTING TO CRY NOW, SHAKING, UNABLE TO LOOK AT THE CAMERA]

I GAVE MY LIFE TO THIS MOVEMENT. I GAVE UP EVERYTHING. I THOUGHT… I THOUGHT THEY’D THANK ME. I THOUGHT TRUMP WOULD CALL. I THOUGHT THE ANGELS WOULD DESCEND AND THE MILITARY WOULD SWEEP IN AND THEY’D HAND ME A GODDAMN MEDAL OF HONOR MADE OF MEMORY FOAM. BUT NO. NO ONE’S CALLING. NO ONE’S COMING. IT’S JUST ME NOW. ME, THIS MIC, AND THE MOLD GROWING IN MY HAIRLINE.

[sobbing]

please… just buy a pillow. just one. for me. for america. for the freedom to fail spectacularly, publicly, and permanently on livestream with 17 viewers and no future.

God bless.

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At Closer to the Edge, we’re not here to play nice with fascists, frauds, or foam-filled false prophets. We’re here to torch the grift, name the names, and laugh while we do it — until the last robe-wrapped lunatic stops screaming.