Tales from the Front: JD Vance’s Letter to His Wife Describes the Artillery Attack [Satire]
Wherein JD laments the Marines who "just missed" their target
My Darling Usha Bala Chilukuri:
As I sit hiding, nay, cowering, in Ann Sather restaurant here on Belmont Avenue in Chicago, I must say it pains me that you insisted after my last desperate letter to you that I refer to you forthwith by your more formal and confusing Telugu name.
We are already facing catastrophic losses in our war against America, my sweet Hindu love child. Having to remember your full name taxes me, and I fear that I may not be able to remember it in full during those critical moments you most desire me to.
Speaking of desire… yes, my darling Vedic cherub, I still have the porn monitoring software on my phone installed, as you well know, and just as you wished. Apologies for last night’s alert. I’m afraid my thumb inadvertantly tapped a link that I thought I had deleted from the homescreen. Please forgive me.
Alas, I shall soldier on. Indescretions, after all, are merely opportunities for future valor.
Yesterday’s war news is not good, I’m afraid.
As the communists and terrorists staged violent demonstrations throughout the land this weekend, a rogue Marine artillery commander aimed a 155-millimeter shell at my posterior and just missed, hitting only my protective detail with some shrapnel, thanks to some sound flanking maneuvers.
We have not yet determined if the artillery fire was directed by one rogue commander or an entire platoon of wayward artillerymen. I can only hope and pray for further investigation.
Our side is suffering from poor morale, so when we first announced our plans to lob live artillery shells across California from Camp Pendleton, most of us thought it would align us with victory almost as thoroughly as zip-tying naked children here in Chicago has done. We need those kinds of morale boosts at least daily, if not more often, my avenging Brahmin.
I laid out attack plans perfectly, my snarling little waif, hoping for the usual California traffic on Interstate 5, but the communist Newsom foiled my plans by shutting down 18 miles of freeway. He claimed that it was in the name of safety. Whose safety? That is my question. More questions than answers, I’m afraid.
We were hoping for slaughter, and all we got was a stupid live shell in the back of a pickup truck next to my security detail. Several vehicles were hit, but we’ve convinced the media that it was all just a silly mistake.
God has provided us a pliant media because he is on our side in this difficult war. If we told the media that the new pope was the devil incarnate (as proposed by Thiel), they’d report it as just so.
Back to the attack.
As you know, artillery targeting systems are incredibly sophisticated. Modern artillery crews could hit a pimple on our dear leader’s neck vulva, such is the state of the art.
We survived the attack. A little ordinance went off, but luckily, my security team avoided the serious injury that was originally intended for the communist hordes on the interstate. The demonstration of our immense power had little impact, I’m afraid. Perhaps we will try again soon, if we can discover the treason behind this internal outrage.
We have bigger problems than California communists if the Marines are trying to take me out. There are traitors among us. As I mentioned, precision targeting these weapons is as common these days as upward coffee price fluctuations, my luscious lamb. This was no mistake.
Praise Ātman that I had just left my team for a quick poo a little further up the road, or my posterior would have morphed into brown cream pudding. Perhaps, in such a worst case scenario, our dear leader could have packed it into his King Trump jet and prepared to drop it upon a crowd of rebels during the next treasonous street gathering of homosexuals, transvestites, and drug lords posing as grandmas with their stupid signs.
California was a disaster, but I find myself in Chicago now, hunkering down in a volatile, sex-crazed neighborhood filled with homeless gay people and angry, out of work dot commers still groping for answers after losing Chicago’s only relevant tech company, Groupon, some years ago.
I’m hiding in Ann Sather restaurant, finishing my tenth cinammon roll of the morning, trying desperately to find the courage to ply these dangerous streets.
My point man, Enrique, tells me that the neighborhood, for now, feels calm, but he’s a veteran of Fallujah. He knows urban warfare better than anyone I know, and he senses trouble brewing. At any moment, the angry horde could explode out of one of these dangerous Chicago alleys and turn us all into food for the feral, cannibalistic homeless barbarians who haunt these streets.
Most alarming, though, is that we no longer know who to trust. Our own marines are taking shots at us. Who else wishes us harm? I’ve never trusted Susie Wiles. Could she be plotting something?
It would be just like her to direct covert attacks against my person, especially in light of my attempted indiscretions with her during our February lunch at Father Ruffian’s home.
My love, I must thank you again for your forgiveness regarding my behavior on that fateful afternoon. I acknowledge, again, that my addiction to power can sometimes become more sexual in nature than you might prefer.
The curfews imposed by our Dear Leader upon my person have helped control my darkest urges, my forgiving angel. I’ll even admit to a chuckle when he said, “An hour at the White House per week is enough for a checkin but not enough for a couch-in!”
I’m not precisely sure what our great and wonderful leader meant by that, but most of what he says comes in the form of riddles, which is what we must expect from a godlike being such as he. As my friend Peter Thiel often reminds me, perhaps the Great One is the anti-christ, but this only means he will deliver us all to that great hall of Valhalla, just just like Kash Patel says on some of his more lucid days.
So for now, I hide. Hide and eat. Damn, these cinammon rolls are good. Ann Sather was surely a communist, but I can forgive her enough to eat ten more of these things.
He spelled Newsom wrong. It's Newsome. One of my pet peeves.
I didn't know he also uses Covenant Eyes. I thought only Holy Mike and Son did that.
"I laid out attack plans perfectly, my snarling little waif"
"my sweet Hindu love child."
😂😂😂😂😂😂
Is that a vaccine mark on The couchf*cker?