Background: You may have heard that Charlie Kirk’s alleged assassin is none other than, possibly, nay, probably, a groyper. If you don’t know what that means, I recommend catching up with Allison Gill here (Trigger warning: You’ll be entering the strange world of extreme online gamers and incels.)
A little more background:
According to the New Republic,1 back when the predator in chief was still mounting (God, how I hate using that word in reference to him) his re-election campaign, white nationalist Nick Fuentes declared that he was officially finished with Trump, and declared Groyper War Two:
White supremacist, Hitler fan, and far-right political pundit Nick Fuentes shockingly revoked his support from Donald Trump’s campaign early Friday, announcing on social media that he and his allies believed that the presidential bid is headed for a “catastrophic loss.”
“Tonight I declared a new Groyper War against the Trump campaign,” Fuentes wrote on X (formerly Twitter) shortly after midnight, referring to a group of far-right activists known as groypers.
I guess all of those “influencers” are potential Trump enemies, so get ready for a war for the ages between incels and other freaks.
It’s fair to say, in fact, that since the attack on Kirk appears to be by someone from team Groyper, we are witnessing the opening rounds of Groyper War Three.
Update
It’s real folks. The war has started.
This letter is from one of the brave fighters of Groyper War Three. You’ll only find this on Ruminato:
My Dear Beloved:
As I write this, my Pepe the Frog flag lies in tatters, smoldering under the shadows of another onslaught from the remnants of the AI-generated crowds of Kampala Harris as “O Bella, Bella Ciao” plays in my headphones.
Never has the situation on the front lines looked so hopeless. We are being mocked at every turn. Our once great and future forever king can barely turn a phrase. His ankles grow thick like the feet of a hippopotamus. His hand darkens, telling us his time is up.
Somewhere, Hunter Biden is laughing at us from an open laptop.
On the surface, all looks well. The greatest court in our land is firmly in our pockets, but alas, I fear it no longer matters, as our enemies now drop into our enemy’s lap from our own ranks.
We had already lost key fighters for our cause, such as the heroic Kyle Rittenhouse, who had said he wouldn’t vote for our Dear Leader for reasons unknown because of his difficulties with language. Whose difficulties with language? Oh, my dear, I am too lost to know.
You may have heard otherwise — that the great General Rittenhouse then changed his mind, but death threats will do that, my darling. I assure you that he is lost and never coming home again. And yet. Do we ever really change our minds, my slavishly sexless slave? The mind boggles.
Oh, thinking of you brings me such sweet surrender, as my memory rhapsodizes to the sounds of air escaping from your sweet body while I bounce you off my lap. Do I dare dream of inflation during times such as these? Do I really have time for such foolish distractions?
Now comes word that one brave soldier took out the traitor Kirk. I don’t know what to make of this, my pet, other than to wonder if perhaps the assassin may have spent one too many hours online and should have given Charlie one more chance. Just one more day.
Alas, perhaps we are broken.
Too, I sense that the death threats will continue unabated, regardless of the next course of action. While our once great king ponders his new ballroom and withdraws yet another tariff, those of us still dedicated to the cause continue our battle, but we grow weary, wary, worn.
We search for allies, but trust no one.
We are losing other heroes. I shall not distract you with their names during these difficult times, for fear, frankly, my dear, that you may fall into one of the woke streams of consciousness that are poisoning the air. What is left unsaid is better, I’m afraid.
That, and there is much crossfire. A misspoken word here, a tweet there, and you or one of our friends could be Swatted and suffer at the hands of friendly fire.
We are facing an uncommon enemy led by impure heathens who long ago lost their way. Now that Kampala has been dispatched, our original enemy has been, too. Its leaders are a hideous greaseball from California and a corporate billionaire from Illinois. We have no fear of them.
The enemy lies within. We are at war, my sartorial siren of Satan, with our own.
Even bathroom door signage is becoming pointless during the struggle. The fake protest crowds from our former true enemy grow, limited only by the power of AI to produce an ever bigger audience and drop it into their deep fake imagery.
Our bleak situation has deteriorated to the point that our Dear Leader’s second in command remains married to a subcontinent heathen of ill repute. Usha Chilukuri Vance? And their child Vivek? What kind of names are these? Does Vance not know we are an American country?
It is almost impossible to write this, but it seems that nearly half of our Dear Leader’s staff is gay.
Many of us are deeply confused. There is no hiding this. On one hand, we have no true leaders. We are the people, engaged in this battle against the cumtown left, but abandoned and betrayed by the very people who swore to defend us.
My darling trad-gf, my sweet inflatable princess of imagined bulges, this even includes the man formerly known as our Great Leader, who once so clearly expounded upon the great national identity that is whiteism when he convinced every young person in America of Kampala’s fantastical, and fantastically fake, Black nationality. The man who helped America realize that a woman cannot lead a nation such as ours through the thickets of the war that is now consuming our godless country.
The nation grows soft. If we are not careful, Andrew Tate will not be the first on the minds of our young men, but instead Nate Bargatze. Woe to us if that transpires.
As the war obtains a new front, my love, I sense a deeper conspiracy at hand, one involving Kampala, who is and always was Indian, and Usha Chilukuri. What are they really up to?
You need look no deeper than into the actions of the Indian Prime Minister, Narendra Damodardas Modi. Modi, as you know, is part of the international cabal of dark Pantones attempting to destroy our way of life.
He is the president of the G20 group of nations, and thus the world order, the Super Earth, dare I say, and I fear that Kampala Harris and Usha Chilukuri have joined forces to turn every white American into a chaat snack.
You might laugh at my fear of cannibalism, my darling co-conspirator, but these are dark times, quite literally.
The power of Earth’s southern hemisphere shithole countries grows like the barbarian hordes who overthrew the Roman empire, which in turn left the world with an emasculated Byzantine Empire that eventually surrendered to the Ottomans.
It was weakness that led the Roman Empire to eventually hand over Anatolia to the Muslim hordes, my sweet, sweet avenger. We all know this.
And now, here we are, facing another crusade, with the same cast of spineless and frightened warriors.
Only this time, the enemy is within. It exists in that very white house that we proudly call the White House. There’s a reason the FBI director, another heathen from the dark, looks like a deer in the headlights.
As if this all isn’t bad enough, my dear, I’m being pressured to abandon you. Yes, you, my stalwart supporter in all things anti-woke. It turns out that Nick, who has sworn that he has never kissed a girl as part of his voluntary celibacy (we affectionately call him an incel), has discovered our relationship and is threatening to end our cohabitation through a relentless onslaught of memes and tweets.
He is also threatening to dox you so that he can reveal your Chinese heritage (all inflatables are made in China, I have tried to inform him). He seems unconvinced that his own Mexican heritage should dissuade him from such chicanery, but I understand the depth of the loss he must be feeling as our Dear Leader tries desperately to grasp one last strand of mental health during his precipitous decline.
Nick is not himself these days, my love, and neither am I.
I therefore must regretfully bid you a fond farewell as I seek a whiter shade of pale than what you can afford me during these troubled times.
I hope you’ll forgive me, my sweet hornet of hate, and I pray you find a new happiness during this, our third Groyper War. May the farce be with you.
Notes:
My regular readers will recognize this as satire.
Hopefully, the rest of you will, too. If you don’t, who can blame you?
They’ve ruined satire, pretty much.
But, alas, Saturday is satire day.
I will soldier on.
Houghtaling, Ellie Quinlan. 2024. “Trump Has Started to Piss off White Supremacists.” The New Republic. August 9, 2024. https://newrepublic.com/post/184729/donald-trump-nick-fuentes-white-supremacists-support.
Learned a new word today. You should publish this on Medium under the "Word of the Day" kicker.
Did you see what Grok said? According to Grok: "based on reports and social media discussions following the assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk on September 10, 2025, the shooter, identified as 22-year-old Tyler Robinson from a 'good Christian gun-loving MAGA family,' followed Laura Loomer on X (formerly Twitter). Robinson was a vocal supporter of Donald Trump and appeared to have been influenced by far-right online rhetoric, including potential inspiration from Loomer's recent criticisms of Kirk as a 'traitor' and 'charlatan' who betrayed Trump."
So have we all, Charles.