A Valentine's Day Letter from the Front Lines
Groyper War III: The chaos continues, but we shall prevail!!!
Background: Infighting within MAGA is consuming the world’s only known multibillion-dollar child sex trafficking cult, which features a crime boss posing as a president protected by his screaming banshee, Pam Bondi, who uses her position to hide the crimes of a dude who makes Caligula look like Cindy Lou Who from Whoville in comparison.
If you’re not familiar with the Groyper Wars, here’s a quick summary and all you need to know: It’s a war between various MAGA factions over its dead soul. Loyalties are impossible to define. They change daily. Not even the combatants know who their homies or enemies are.
Why is the current iteration called Groyper War Three? It all started when white nationalist Nick Fuentes said he was officially finished with Trump and declared Groyper War Two during the 2024 presidential campaign.
Now that he’s back in the fold, apparently, the various loyalists and rebels are fighting over other things. Nobody really knows what. Some say they’re all fighting over Charlie Kirk’s grieving wife, who has made a fortune off Charlie’s death, but, really, it’s anybody’s guess. Could be anything. What happens in the asylum known as MAGA stays in the asylum, partly because they’re all stoned on ketamine and other synthetics.
Meanwhile, the regime is suffering one loss after another. Morale on the “home front” is low, despite what MAGA says on Apartheid Twitter.
This letter is from one of the brave fighters of Groyper War Three. It comes with its own musical score you can listen to while reading (under Notes here).
You’ll only find this kind of content on Ruminato (Thank God).
My Eternally Beloved:
There have been many developments since my last letter. First, I want you to know that I received your latest “Dear John” letter, and have filed it with the seventy or so others you have sent. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much I cherish your every word, my sweet cherub of chicanery.
The detailed debasements in your screeds remind me of our rapturous time together, those tender moments when we’d huddle in my mother’s basement during the horrific Obama years and dream of better days. How can I forget the skill you displayed when you cleverly squirmed out of your zip ties on that final bright autumn day we shared in Peoria those many years ago?
The way you marvelled at my driving skills as I powered my 1976 Buick Skylark out of the neighborhood remains etched in my memory, like an Emil Nolde1 masterpiece painted into my soul. You watched me drive away, both your fists shaking in my direction, thrilled at my getaway. Such a beautiful, cinematic moment.
I was anguished with regret knowing you couldn’t watch me dazzle the police while I tore through downtown Peoria during the police chase of the century, the old Skylark finally puffing its last breath at the roundabout on North 83rd, right in front of the Peoria Jailhouse Museum.2
Yes, my darling demoness, nearly all my waking moments are accompanied by memories of our star-crossed love affair.
Especially now, as the battle for our cause continues to dim during our struggle to blacken the hearts and minds of the people of this lost nation.
I have little time to think of this larger problem, however, as my focus must remain on tactical efforts here on the front lines, where only the bravest dare tread.
Yesterday, I was tasked with retrieving a blanket that our courageous Generalissimama Noem left on a plane. Such a simple thing. A blanket. Why did it cause such consternation?3
Word was that it had been somewhat tainted by fluids that were a byproduct of a visit she had with her lover, Corey Lewandowski.
In a grueling melee that will scar me for life, I fought through a gauntlet of porno thespians who wanted the blanket for themselves. We did battle in the plane's aisle, leaving nothing but torn upholstery and travel bottles of vodka in our wake.
Ultimately, I prevailed, but by the time the skirmish concluded, the blanket was torn into several pieces, like the robe of David after his encounter with Bathsheba. And, like Bathsheba’s ill-fated husband Uriah Heep, I was removed to the most dangerous battle zones of the front lines by the Generalissimama herself.
As punishment? Or reward? Oh, my hating harlot, I cannot know.
You may have heard that Commander Lewandowski fired the pilot of the plane for allowing the tainted blanket to remain behind after the Generalissimama’s exit. Sadly, they were unable to find a replacement for the pilot, so he returned to finish his mission,4 lured back, as I understand it, with the next Cabinet opening, should one occur.
We are so blessed with a head of state who boldly proclaims that a Cabinet opening is an opening for all, no CV required.
The pilot and I bonded over what was left of the aircraft’s vodka, and, together, we bravely took to the skies.
We were joined by the fearless RFK Jr., who told me not to be concerned about a small measles outbreak that was beginning to knock out several of the passengers, seemingly all at once. Robbie Jr., in his ruffian gravel of a voice, assured me we’d be okay, as he gently placed one palm on my knee, which was now exposed thanks to the earlier brawl. “I’m not scared of a germ,” he said to me with a sly smile. “You know, I used to snort cocaine off of toilet seats.”5
Thus assured, doing my best Scott Bessent imitation, I instinctively and aggressively kissed his lips, to which he seemed to take some offense, as he responded with a sprightly slap to the face. I explained that I was merely celebrating his fortitude, and fences were quickly mended.
During the flight, the two of us flipped through Pam Bondi’s burn book together, scouring it for points of attack and finding many. He was in a hurry to deliver the newly revised edition to her personally before her appearance testifying against the libs in Congress, so you can imagine how important this flight felt to everyone.
Alas, as it turned out, we were all on the wrong plane and were headed to El Paso, Texas, instead of Washington D.C. Robbie Jr. was furious, but I took his hand and comforted him, reminding him that God has a reason for everything.
It was then that he let me in on a little secret. “Hush hush to all our cohort,” he rasped, “But I haven’t believed in God since my brain worm informed me that there is no room for both God and Trump. It’s one or the other, you see.” This made sense to me, and it helps me understand our cause even better.
During the flight, we also received devastating news about the loss of Minneapolis, where the purple-haired SSRI addicts are once again on the verge of taking control.6
I’m torn, my love, about my loyalties within the Groyper Wars that are threatening to tear the meat out of the top of the food chain that leads our great movement. On one side is Tom Homan, whom the Impervious One himself has installed to take over from our former commandant, Gregory Bovino. Commandant Bovino’s surprising removal alone has been an incalculable loss.
On the other side is Generalissimama Noem, her trusty servant and manboy Lewandowski, and the esteemed and legendary Stephen Miller, who I’m told has just returned from a short visit to the vampire citadels of Eastern Romania, where he received some much-needed sustenance.
Commander Lewandowski has suggested several times that we use this aircraft as a kamikaze weapon when Congress next convenes over the DHS funding issue. As you can imagine, my ephemeral essence of enmity, this idea thrills me to the bone. When Commander Lewandowski flashed a screenshot from a Baal Bank account with the numbers involved, it motivated me even further.
It’s true that my chances for surviving such an endeavor are not great. But these are not times for narcissism or questions of self. I am a soldier of God and our exalted leader, both, despite what Robbie Jr. tells me.
I almost forgot to mention that, assuming I survive my next mission, I’ve been assigned an exciting opportunity to use AI to fix Sen. Mark Kelly’s treasonous video in which he threatened military personnel with unnamed consequences for following orders.
Queen Wiles has determined that the fight against Kelly in the liberal federal courts is a losing one, so she has given yours truly the honor of creating and distributing AI-generated videos of Traitor Kelly admitting his mistake. We intend to flood the zone, as it were, with thousands of different videos of Kelly making his apology to different audiences.
We are leaving no stone unturned here, my demonic darling. Even PornHub will see its own specialized version of the “new, improved Mark Kelly,” fully buffed, fully monty, and in all his full glory, proclaiming his allegiance to our sacred cause.
My love, I’m thankful I sat next to the strident but confident Robbie Jr. during the flight, because it became an aviation nightmare as we approached El Paso airspace. His confidence rubbed off on me like a Vance appendage against a couch, as we like to say in the Groyper pickleball locker room.
The pilot, that same brave soul responsible for collecting Generalissimama Noem’s blanket, informed us that we were under attack by the enemy.
“Please fasten your seatbelts as I take evasive maneuvers,” he said, his courage seeping through the intercom like a Patriot on his final mission. I’d only admit this to you, my barren bride of beauty, but I held on to Robbie Jr. like the frightened child I felt myself to be as the plane veered and dropped and cornered through airspace with maneuvers I’d only expect from a Blue Angels pilot.
The aircraft plummeted some ten thousand feet as it nosedived from an upside-down position, evading the enemy with the alacrity of one of nature’s great sky predators — like, dare I say, a bald eagle.
When it was over, the hero of our story, a Coast Guard pilot whose portrait will someday appear in bas-relief on a plaque in the White House, put the plane on autopilot and emerged to tell his harrowing story to the terrified passengers.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he announced that the FAA had closed El Paso airspace due to the threat he had just encountered. His captive audience gasped as one.
“What was it?” asked an unidentified woman at the front.
“That, my friends,” he replied, “was a threat we have, frankly, long prepared for from a tactical standpoint. It was on paper. It was a known theoretical possibility. But until we were faced with the actual danger, it was nearly impossible to game out the outcome.”
“But what was it?” she asked again, shoving a dead passenger (measles) off the seat next to her and into the aisle.
The pilot was white as a sheet. He wiped more sweat from his brow.
“Party balloons,” he answered bravely. 7
I won’t lie, my aberrant angel. My grip on optimism is shaken. What becomes of us when our own citizens attack us with party balloons? Are they involving their children in their nefarious schemes?
Much of the nation has turned against us for reasons I am unable to comprehend. We appear to have lost one of our primary foot soldiers, Marjorie Taylor Greene, to the enemy.
Another longtime warrior, Thomas Massie, has gone from this:
to this:
The world is upside down, my lovely vixen of venality. We forge ahead anyway, determined that our cause is just, no matter what the rest of the world may say.
Not all the news is terrible. We’ve plundered the sciences, which gives us a reprieve, at least, until the enemy finds a way to bring them back. Many so-called “research” scientists have left their university communist enclaves and returned to the Chinese hordes of Asia, where they belong.
European scientists are also rediscovering their roots as they return to the socialist hotbeds in European capitals that were long ago lost to African and Middle Eastern barbarians. Perhaps they shall win back their nations, and we can allow them to re-enter our superior ranks.
But European patriots are also under duress. The French have launched an attack on Elon’s pride and joy, X, and are threatening him with unbridled sanctions over the display of a few clever AI videos. It’s all quite appalling.
And as the enemy continues its effort to defame our great leader with a twisted discovery of a million references to his name in what is nothing more than an online catalog of sorts, sometimes it feels like the walls are closing in.
But we know this: We stand by him at all costs, whether he is accused of shooting someone in broad daylight on Fifth Avenue, or much worse.
Only our side gets to decide what is truth and what are lies. I will die on that hill, my sweet hornet of hate.
I pray you find happiness during this, our third Groyper War, as you eagerly wait my return. May the farce be with you.
Notes:
My regular readers will recognize this as satire, borrowed from many different iterations of wartime Letters from the Front Lines.8
Hopefully, the rest of you will, too. If you don’t, who can blame you?
They’ve ruined satire, pretty much.
But at the same time, Saturday is satire day. And this one happens to fall on Valentine’s Day. Enjoy your chocolates!
Meanwhile, I, too, will soldier on.
Speaking of vampires, have you checked out my dark comedy, Psalm of Vampires? I think you should!
Background music while reading
Footnotes
zu, Museen. “Emil Nolde. A German Legend. The Artist during the Nazi Regime.” Smb.museum, 2019. https://www.smb.museum/en/exhibitions/detail/emil-nolde-a-german-legend-the-artist-during-the-nazi-regime/.
There really is such a place, but Google Maps says it’s closed.
True story:
Also true. See (3).
Also true.
Kristol, William, Andrew Egger, Cathy Young, and Jim Swift. “The Resistance Gains Momentum.” Thebulwark.com. The Bulwark, February 13, 2026. https://www.thebulwark.com/p/the-resistance-gains-momentum-trump-courts-hegseth-kelly-senate-dhs-funding-house-tariffs-homan-minnesota-ice
From a quote dug up by Jay Kuo :
If Republicans cave to this insurrectionist and seditionist behavior, they will send an unequivocal message to every purple-haired SSRI addict in the country: domestic terrorism works. Caving will incentivize more radical leftist violence across the country. If leftists learn that they can use violence to make ICE withdraw in Minneapolis, they will employ the same strategy across America.
Kuo, Jay. “Taking the Wins.” Substack.com. The Status Kuo, February 13, 2026. https://statuskuo.substack.com/p/taking-the-wins
Also true. Party balloons led the FAA to close El Paso airspace for a few hours (but originally announced as a ten-day closure).
Nytimes.com. “Welcome to Zscaler Directory Authentication,” 2026. https://www.nytimes.com/2026/02/11/us/trump-administration-el-paso-airspace-closure-questions.html.
American Experience. “Letters from the Front.” Pbs.org. American Experience, May 31, 2019. https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/dday-letters-front/.
Perfection.