Blogs @ Relative Progress

CAIRO, IL (TMI) – Somewhere between the hyper-partisan bullshit that pours from the mouth of every shit pundit with a microphone, an American story is emerging, and a choice is beginning to present itself.

A few months ago I was having dinner with a Trump supporter in a hotel lobby in Phoenix, prior to a Turning Point Action event where the former President would be speaking. She was convinced that everyone who acted amiss on January 6th was a bonafide Antifa operative, hell-bent on besmirching the irreproachable name of her beloved Donald John Trump. I tried to explain what I witnessed with my own eyes, but she wasn’t having any of it.

Trump supporters would never act like that, she said authoritatively, as though she had been there for every mismanaged manner of action that day. For her, there was no other conceivable explanation. Her President, and those who support him, are perfect in every way.

I’m sure she had hours worth of listening to other people who weren’t there – all of them bolstering her irrefutable belief – but I just didn’t have it in me to engage in any sort of meaningful argument on the matter. In the land of the deceived and the home of the ignorant, no amount of first-hand perspective can compensate for the preponderance of propaganda being force-fed to the public.

The steak was ok, but the conversation was top notch insanity.

I digress. Back to the matter at hand.

Here we are: An imperfect nation, full of imperfect people waiting for some sort of messiah to put themselves on a cross, and save us from ourselves. Regardless of self-proclaimed (or otherwise authoritarian) designation of political persuasion, the yearning for leadership is the only thread of commonality which seems to be holding this country back from going completely over the cliff and falling into the abyss of an anything but amicable Balkanization of the Union.

If the BLM riots of the summer of 2020 taught us anything, it’s that nothing unites a movement quite like martyrdom. The mindless masses love fresh blood.

It’s highly unlikely that George Floyd would’ve had anything to do with some of the more horrific events that followed his death. From my limited understanding of his life, his concerns never seemed to reach beyond the daily struggle which so many Americans share: paying the rent, finding our next meal, and staying out of jail in the process.

I reached out to his family’s attorney, seeking to interview his sister, but have yet to hear back. The search for a wider context isn’t easy, but the American consumer has never been particularly concerned with that level of detail; especially when they’re being incited to act out by the very power structure that placed Derick Chauvin’s knee on George Floyd’s neck. One can only sense that the willingness of the martyr to give their life for a greater purpose is of little historical significance.

It was at the aforementioned rally in Phoenix where Ashli Babbitt’s mother Micki first entered my own perspective of understanding. I can’t recall right off-hand who it was that introduced her. It may have been Rep. Paul Gosar. I could look at my notes. Quite frankly it doesn’t matter; politicians chase death like no other profession. Even a gonzo journalist can’t keep up with that level of opportunistic narcissism.

And besides, amidst the worshipful cries of “We want Trump”, it is Micki’s humanity that bears remembering, and her daughter’s untimely death at the hands of Capitol Police Officer Michael Leroy Byrd. Yet another tale of American martyrdom; another sacrifice on the alter of freedom and societal progress. It’s a good thing he had three names. The tinfoil hat wearers will stick to that detail with every ounce of their being. It’s easy to dehumanize these events; a perfectly rational course of action in this overstimulated world we inhabit, but after years of watching death, rape, and torture on our TVs, while munching popcorn, goldfish, and whatever the fuck else we stuff our fat American bodies with, is it even surprising that we find people giggling at the murder of a 14 year Air Force veteran, who once gave up her own safety and security to defend this American un-exceptionalism?

I suppose the disdain for the veterans who went to the Capitol that day is what continues to disturb me the most. I’ve never given that much for my country, and most of the people who mock those who did, do so from their positions of privilege; paid for with the blood of those who have.

Damn our inability to reflect on the mess we’ve made. Damn our stupidity. Damn our lack of compassion. It’s probably time to learn from the people we’ve lost, and those who feel their absence the most. This very search for understanding has guided my travels for the last three years, but as we watch the social media shit feed continue to tear truth to shreds, this mission this mandate becomes ever more important.

4 days ago, I found myself in Freeport, Texas, at a small memorial for Ashli Babbitt.

The number of attendees at the Bridge Harbor Yacht Club was nothing extravagant but there was a sense of family unlike any event I myself, have ever attended. The large majority of those who had come to celebrate Ashli’s birthday each had their own stories of loss related to January 6. I myself have spent many an evening weeping at what that ill-fated day meant for the future of our freedom, federal prosecution is but a side-note. An array of speakers professing their hopes, dreams, and of course, their losses; from Tayler Hanson, the red haired, young journalist who held Ashli as she took her last breaths, to her loving husband Aaron, who spoke of the loss of his soul when his wife was murdered that day, the pain in the room was palpable.

Of course there were smiles, albeit pained and defensive; speaking volumes more than the tears of words were able to express. Certainly there was overwhelming sadness, and anger at those who were deemed to be responsible for the loss of her life. A small group of Patriots remembered who she was, how she died, and what her death might possibly mean for the future. Donald Trump sent a message, expressing his unwavering support for the family, and others did the same. Many felt that justice had not been served in the matter, and there was plenty of discussion as to how it could be attained.

Ashli’s mother spoke in a way which only a grieving mother can: with absolutely no fear of any potential for punishment.

“Fuck off and die, Nancy Pelosi,” she said as a matter of fact.

In a world where free speech is being curtailed, and federal agents traverse the country, breaking down doors, her loss has enabled her to speak with no filter. As she told me later, they’ve already taken her daughter; they’ve lost all ability to punish her further.

After the official event had ended, attendees continued to speak to one another. Proud Boys were gathered to provide security for agitators that never showed up, but the solidarity in purpose was supremely evident.

Once the small crowd began to disperse, I found myself drinking Yuengling at a table with Newsmax’s Johnny Tabacco. He was having a cocktail and watching his New York City Giants take on the Dallas Cowboys. The last few years have left me giving zero fucks about football, but I have to admit: watching grown men play a child’s game will always be a nice distraction. I found myself simply enjoying the game, like a Thanksgiving round of catch with my old man.

A few minutes after having a seat I gave comment to his co-host, and founder of Citizens Against Political Persecution, Cara Castronuova, who had set up her camera in the lounge. I’ve never been particularly good at sound byte commentary; I’m far too much of an ent for that jazz. If you don’t know what an ent is, you should probably read more Tolkien. No one is on my side, little orc.

She asked me why I had come to the memorial. I said it was the right thing to do. Ashli didn’t deserve to die that day. Too many people pass judgement from the comfort of their sofa.

Many had already left when the idea of dinner came up. I decided to stay it only made sense for me to have some food while I was there. Fried oysters and mud bugs; fresh fish and some other sort of breaded goodness was on the menu.

I laughed with Edward Smith, an Irish accented preacher who claimed to be from Idaho, about the silliness of assumption, and the wickedness of the world we live in.

I briefly recounted the tale of my path to gonzo journalism.

Ashli’s mother entered the room, and hugs were to be given to all. Expression of understanding is impossible, but she handled each bereavement with grace and understanding. She walked as an example for us all. She may very well be the best of us.

A few minutes later, she pointedly sat down at my end of the dinner table, where we both came to understand a bit more about each other. I briefed her on how I came to find myself at the Capitol that day, and how I was just down the hall when I heard a gunshot. I told her of my legal troubles. She listened intently, and offered her support.

After losing her daughter, she continues to give.

Micki Witthoeft is a small woman; kind, beautiful, and bold. By nearly all accounts, her daughter Ashli was much the same. Regardless of what some may say about her motivations on January 6th, it would be impossible to argue that she lacked courage. To spend any time in the presence of her mother is to understand where this courage was formed.

As we attempted to converse against a steady wave of well wishers, Micki told me of a dream she had been given; a vision of the future; a message from beyond the grave.

Sometime after Ashli’s death, she had been guided in her sleep to a place where her daughter had been waiting. There she saw her, clear as day.

She was in prison, and Ashli told her mother she had been sentenced to death. Frantically and against all logic, Micki seemed to think the only reasonable course of action was to put Ashli in her purse, safe from this sentence where she could be snuck out of hell, back home to her family, where she belonged. It was at that moment when the purpose of the visit began to coalesce. Ashli wasn’t alone. There, in the prison with her, were the dozens of others who now begged for their mother to release them.

With no previous concern for those who were caught up in the trap that day, Micki found a new purpose: Political prisoners must be set free. America is better than what we’ve allowed it to become.

I took her dream to heart, with full understanding of how crazy some may believe it to be. I told Micki that anyone who doubts her authenticity in the matter is quite welcome to fuck right off. We shared some nervous laughter at the thought.

So now, as I write from the place where the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers join, I ponder the direction of America. Something about this point, where Jim and Finn had sought to find freedom, has me pondering greater consequence. It’s easy to think of the things that divide us, like a river which splits as we all swim headfirst, against the current. It may be convenient to think about separation and secession, but perhaps we are going about this all wrong. America has always been a confluence of culture; a place where separate identities and past experiences meet to form a common identity. Perhaps the path to freedom isn’t about fighting the current. Perhaps we would be better served by coming together and finding our place in the natural progression of things. With an open eyed understanding of what we stand to lose, maybe it’s possible to follow our destiny and become one mighty river, unabated in it’s course to the freedom of the open sea.

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Today we sat down for an update on election fraud in New Mexico with Erin Clements, voting integrity warrior.

View the New Mexico Voter Fraud Report here.

Find out the difference between a full forensic audit and a risk limiting audit here.

“We have seen growing evidence that the dangers to our country can come not only across borders, but from violence that gathers within.

There is little cultural overlap between violent extremists abroad and violent extremists at home. But there is disdainful pluralism in their disregard for human life, in their determination to defile national symbols.

They are children of the same foul spirit and it is our continuing duty to confront them.”Publisher’s Note: The image here is a painting called “War Games” which is intended to highlight George W. Bush’s manipulation of the attacks of 9/11 to justify war in Iraq.

It is part of a pair of works by New York-based, Australian artist Petrina Ryan-Kleid. It’s companion piece, called “Parsing Bill”, is an image of former president Bill Clinton clad in a blue dress and high heels, gesturing to the viewer.

Both were found in Jeffrey Epstein’s $56 million Manhattan home, and he didn’t kill himself.

The following is an exact transcript from a whistleblower within the Armed Services.
This is not satire. This is not a joke.
This is what’s happening with taxpayer dollars.
This is what our military is being ordered to do.
This is the reality for our men and women in uniform.

Certain identifying portions have been redacted, and some spelling corrections have been made.
(The original text was typed quite hastily)
Trusted sources are trusted.
– Shawn Bradley Witzemann (TMI)

“2/1 Marines were held at least one extra day at the tax payers expense in the dangerous combat theater Kabul, Afghanistan to police call (clean) their base for the Taliban.
I know you’re waiting for the punchline but this isn’t a joke.
The General’s name is General Sullivan w/ TF 51/5. They were ordered to clean, even though there were credible threats of suicide vests and about a dozen military aged men, armed with AKs, came over the walls of Abbey Gate of the base at the time.
The base in question was HKIA; arguably the most valuable air base in all of Kabul, and 2nd most valuable in the entire nation.
I lived there myself for a few months, and it is huge; filled with transient barracks and massive motor pools that we shouldn’t be cleaning for the enemy. They knew this and were still ordered to making cleaning up the base, to hand over to the Taliban, top priority.
The order came from 51/5 General and SGTMAJ.
They made these marine sleep on the floor and benches of the gyms, and then clean up after themselves in the gym, after packing up to leave, as well as reflip vehicles into the right position to hand over to the Taliban.
It was also apparently a Navy Admiral that made them do this because 2/1 had apparently trashed a vehicle of his (not his POV mind you but a military vehicle merely assigned to him), so he took it out on them with this dangerous and wildly insulting, petty vengeance play, while he hid in the JOC doing no work.
I know you are [Redacted], but I am a soldier who spent time on HKIA, defending HKIA, operating missions, and living out of HKIA.
This is a disgrace to all of us who gave our bodies, energy and best years to the fighting forces for Afghanistan for them to treat these Marines like this.
All soldiers are my brothers, [Redacted]. Please stand up for them somehow, or contact whatever the whistleblowing group for them is.”

More to come in a series of future posts.

The following is the transcript of the from Shawn Witzemann remarks at Reclaim Restore County by County Event :

Ladies and Gentlemen, the odds are against us. 

This isn’t your typical run of the mill political battle.   

What we are confronted with, is the very end of our Republic.   

This isn’t hyperbole. 

What we face….is the death of America. 

I was told that people need to hear my story, but that’s a task, easier said than done. 

There isn’t a single American that can be summed up only by what is known to the public, and I am no exception. 

I have plenty of skeletons in my closet, and there’s certainly not enough time right now to drag all of those bones into the light of day.

I’m sure that many of you would recoil in horror at the plethora of mistakes I’ve made in my 39 years on this planet.   

With the little time I do have, I’ll endeavor to do be as truthful as I can. 

I was born and raised in Farmington, New Mexico.

Although I would be moved elsewhere from time to time, as my father followed work, this town represents the very roots of my being. 

In fact, I now live only a couple of blocks away from the house where I learned to ride a bicycle; a short walk from the home where my father decided to embrace his own destiny, and become an entrepreneur.   

Of all the lessons I learned from my father, the principles of hard work, independence, and loyalty are those that will never be forgotten.

I watched as he spent endless hours, applying his college degrees in economics and business administration to painstakingly doing his book work by hand.  Returning phone calls until late at night; after I had already been instructed to go to bed.  Up at the crack of dawn to earn a living for his wife and children. 

My mother is an artist.  It was she who taught me the beauty of the written word….the emotion in the stroke of a paintbrush….the pain in a phrase from a long forgotten blues song…the power of love. 

It’s a shame that I was unable to hearken to the lessons my parents had taught me when I was young, but I was never destined to learn things the easy way.  My years are a testament to this fact.

Much of my own being has been shaped by hard experience. Molded by my failures.

I submit to you that America is much the same.
This experiment hasn’t always been successful. 

Much like this country we love, I was rebellious and petulant. I had all the answers, but I was unable to apply them to reach my own success. 

I hated authority. I despised the hypocrisy of the church I attended.  My distaste for societal norms was evidenced by my inability to stay out of trouble. 

I was blue haired and belligerent.  Proud in my own ignorance. 

In my late teenage years, and into early adulthood, I struggled to find a path that wasn’t leading me to incarceration.

I scoffed at the thought of imprisonment; too young and stupid to know what it meant.   

I played guitar at house parties and studied philosophy and political science.

I drank, and smoked, and huffed from the drip tanks behind San Juan College. 
I was trying my best to be dead by the age of 27. 

I was in a state of extended adolescence, but my childhood came to an abrupt end when at the age of 22, I was given the news that I would be a father.

The moon of my life came to me scared. 
She was afraid that she would be alone in raising the child she had become pregnant with.

I assured her she was not.  I told her I would take care of them. I told her I was ready to be a man.   

I was a liar. 

Through endless carousing and a complete lack of respect for the life I had created, I strayed from the path I was meant to walk.

My ignorance landed me in a bar fight, while already on probation.

My son was little more than one month old, and I was sitting in the San Juan County Detention Center…..looking at spending the next 5 years in prison. 

People always make jokes about finding Jesus in prison, but the truth is…..he often finds you. 

I spent my time thinking about what I stood to lose.  I read the Proverbs of Solomon and pondered my mistakes; terrified that I would miss out on being a father to my son.   

I went before Judge Carla Vescovi-Dial to hear her judgement.   

She wasn’t my biggest fan. 

“Mr. Witzemann”, she said, “You come before me, having been given probation for aggravated assault on a police officer, and now it is my understanding that you were involved in a bar fight?”

“There’s really nothing to say here,” she said coldly, “I am sentencing you to serve the remainder of your time in prison”. 

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks as I was escorted from the video court room and back to the bench where countless others waited to have their fates decided.   

I began crying. 

The guy sitting next to me asked what had happened. He asked what was wrong. 

I said “I guess God still has something to teach me”. 

I had failed my moon. I had failed my son. 
I hung my head and continued to weep.

Inexplicably……I was called back into the video courtroom.   

The judge spoke……

“Mr. Witzemann,” she said, “ I don’t know why… but I’ve decided to release you today.  If I ever see you again, I will BURY you under this jail.”   

Just a few hours later, I was released.
I was greeted in the parking lot by my moon;
My son Isaiah was safe in his car seat. 
I swore I would never leave him again. 

I tell this story as an example of the power of hopelessness. 

America stands on the precipice. 

Our country is held captive by the consequence of our mistakes as a people.

Pointing the finger will not spare us from judgement. 

We must take personal responsibility for the situation we are in.

On January 6th, I witnessed as hundreds of thousands of Americans went to the Capitol to protest the stolen election.   

I saw years of disillusionment and steady gaslighting come to a head that day, as protestors move up the stairs on the west side of the inauguration stage. 

I inhaled the tear gas as it was shot into the crowd. 

I watched as a man was pushed to his death right in front of me.   

I saw the fear in the eyes of Capitol Police.

I begged them not to start shooting lead into the crowd. 

I told them that if they did, we would all die.

I watched as they stood down.

I watched as protesters poured into the Capitol.

I watched as Capitol Police ushered people through the building, asking them to stay within the ropes, like some sort of weird, guided tour from hell.

I was just down the hall from the Speakers Chambers when I heard the gunshot that killed Ashli Babbit.

I was there in the statuary, when when police instructed  everyone to return to the rotunda. 

For a minute it seemed like there would be a peaceful sit-in.  I’m a child of hippies. 

Forgive my ignorance. 

My most hopeful of wishes would soon turn to dust. 

I was convinced I was going to die when police moved in and began pushing everyone toward the east doorway; I was caught between two masses of people.

I had nowhere to escape.

I couldn’t breathe. 

We were being crushed. 

I watched as a woman passed out right in front of me.  I struggled to keep her from being trampled. 

I pushed my left arm out against the police, and screamed at those around me to “MAKE SOME ROOM!” as she lay lifeless on the glass floor; inches away from the boots that would kill her, without intervention.   

I thanked God when police finally grabbed her and dragged her limp body behind the line.
I thanked the police emphatically. 

Most of them weren’t enjoying this any more than I was.  They couldn’t breathe either. 

Somewhere along the way, it became very obvious to me what was going on.

I looked up at the eye of the rotunda, and marveled.

It was beautiful.

This was the end.

I was bearing witness to the very death of our Republic.

Suddenly…..the pressure relented, and I was able to breathe again. 

By some miracle, I was able to leave that building on my own two feet. 

I surveyed Capitol Hill and decided I had seen enough. 

As I walked west on Pennsylvania Avenue, someone was playing Johnny Cash.

“When the Man comes Around”

I returned to my hotel room where I made an appearance on “The Situation Room” with Rocci Stucci. 

When the time came to broadcast my own show, the tears were impossible to hold back. 

Once again in my life, I wept openly. 

I was in a state of mourning. 

The next day, I rented a car, and with the help of multiple friends, I made my way back to New Mexico as quickly as I could; driven by one purpose: to see my children again.   

The following week, the FBI came knocking at my door. 

I agreed to meet with them, to discuss what I had seen. 

I had nothing to hide. Journalism is a public business. 

Later that month, I watched as Biden was installed.

I watched as the events of January 6th were turned into a caricature of the truth. 

Over the next several weeks, I watched as hundreds were rounded up and charged with crimes they did not commit.

I watched as the lie unfolded.

On April 1st of this year (a fitting date for this old fool), I too was charged with crimes I did not commit.

I was contacted by the FBI and instructed to turn myself in.

I was taken to the Cibola County Detention Center in Grants, NM, where I once again found myself wondering if I would ever see my children again. 

I reflected on the decisions that led me to that point. I pondered the lessons being given to me by God. 

I was released to pretrial services the following day, and I continue to be thankful for my current disposition.
But in the midst of this wrongful prosecution, as I face the potential of 3 years in federal prison, a path has been laid out before me. 

Silence is not an option. 

No threat of imprisonment can dissuade me from this purpose.

We were endowed by our Creator, with certain unalienable rights; long before the founders decided to put pen to paper.   

Right now….as I speak….
US veterans who committed no acts of violence on January 6th are being held in solitary confinement for daring to peacefully petition their government for a redress of grievances.

As I speak…
we are watching as a a lab created virus with a survival rate of over 99% is being used to destroy all personal liberty, in the name of a false sense of security. 

As I speak…
We are watching as countless friends and family are being systematically murdered by this so-called vaccine; the true bio weapon. 

As I speak…
This country, and everything good it could have been, is being destroyed at the behest of a globalist agenda that would seek to exterminate all human life on this planet. 

As I speak….
Patriotism is being criminalized.

These realities are an affront to American values and cannot be allowed to continue unabated.   

The Great Reset is upon us, and it’s time to wake up.   

“Building Back Better” is a one-way ticket to hell. 

The Republic has fallen and the future of our children hangs in the balance. 

I implore you to recognize the hopelessness of our situation.

Regardless of cost, we must push back at those powers that would deprive us of our God given liberties. 

Regardless of cost, we must raise our voices in defiance of tyrannical law.

Regardless of cost, we must now come together and fight for our freedom. 

We’ve already been divided.  The fall has already occurred. 

Only together, and in obedience to God, can we pick up the pieces, and stand once again. 

Here is a link to my give send go. GiveSendGo – Witzemann Family Fund: The #1 Free Christian Fundraising Site.

Here is a link to our nightly broadcast on Facebook – The American Council for Truth in Journalism

Here is a link to my sometimes satirical and sometimes real Facebook page – Farmington Tribune

Here is a link to the Facebook page of the biweekly, NM focused podcast I do.
– New Mexico Rising