"Eat Sh*t": VP Vance Unleashes on Critics Attacking His Family

Paul Riverbank, 12/22/2025VP Vance urges conservative unity, rejects division, and fiercely defends family amid AmericaFest’s somber mood.

JD Vance’s arrival at the podium was subdued, lacking the bravado that often characterizes these rallies. He paused, studied the room, and spoke with a gravity that cut through the restless energy—his voice softer than one might expect, the cadence deliberate, as though he was choosing every word with care. “President Trump did not build the greatest coalition in politics by running his supporters through endless, self-defeating purity tests,” Vance said, his phrasing landing almost gently. He lingered on the idea of inclusion, offering a portrait of the movement as wide-open and capacious, more invitation than litmus test. The usual applause was quieter; people listened, looking for some sign of direction amidst the churn of recent weeks.

Then Vance leaned into the wound everyone felt but hadn’t voiced directly. He invoked Charlie Kirk’s memory, not as abstract eulogy, but as a call to drop the constant squabbles over who counts as “pure” enough for the cause. “The best way to honor Charlie is that none of us here should be doing something after Charlie’s death that he himself refused to do in life.” The room finally stirred, the tension breaking as activists—many nursing scars from months of factional infighting—met his words with genuine applause, not the ritual clapping that so often drowns out nuance.

You could feel strands of conversation winding through the hall later: some folks wondered aloud if the conservative movement was splintering under the weight of its own reflexive gatekeeping. The online world, predictably quick to pile on or castigate, was less forgiving. Vance didn’t avoid the topic; if anything, he redirected it, noting wryly, “I didn’t bring a list of conservatives to denounce or deplatform, and I don’t really care if some people out there… I’m sure we’ll have the fake news media denounce me after this speech.” The room warmed to that—a signal that exhaustion with internal squabbles had reached its breaking point.

And yet, outside the echo chamber, hostility brewed. Progressive commentator Jennifer Welch didn’t mince words about what she saw as “media manipulation,” telling viewers that networks had quit journalism in favor of propaganda. Her sharp dismissal mirrored the polarization that frames nearly every national debate these days—point and counterpoint, argument and dismissal, the endless seesaw.

The sharpest moment of the weekend came in neither speech nor tweet, but in the vice president’s raw reaction to criticism of his family. During an interview with UnHerd, Vance was unambiguous: “Anyone who attacks my wife, whether their name is Jen Psaki or Nick Fuentes, can eat sh*t. That’s my official policy as vice president of the United States.” It was jarring, unvarnished—emblematic of a broader frustration with the personal ugliness that so often pervades the modern political fray. His words got shared, dissected, and condemned, but in the crowd, some nodded, recognizing the fatigue that comes from seeing loved ones become targets.

For all the talk of division, Vance circled back, both onstage and off, to a message that went bigger than a single event: an insistence that bigotry and ethnic hatred have no home in this movement. “We don’t treat anybody different because of their race or their sex,” he said—an old promise, but one many still need to hear reaffirmed, especially in times when bad actors on all sides test the boundaries.

As images of Charlie Kirk flickered across giant screens and his widow Erika spoke heartbreakingly on Fox about performative grief, AmericaFest felt suspended between past and future. “Send me a note if you want, but don’t posture,” Erika Kirk said, pushing back against hollow tributes by reminding everyone that comfort, when it’s needed most, comes from authenticity, not optics.

Looking ahead to the 2024 election, Vance’s words—about unity, inclusion, and rejecting the urge to fracture—echo beyond the conference hall. Whether those themes can take root in the movement, or whether this weekend’s humility will be forgotten in the churn of another campaign season, is an open question. It will depend, perhaps less on the slogans of leaders, and more on whether activists and voters alike are willing to listen, quietly and honestly, to each other—perhaps, for once, without preconditions.

Something in the air at AmericaFest this year felt different—heavier, maybe, or simply uncertain. In the packed Phoenix hall, eyes bore not just the usual fire of partisan allegiance but uncertainty and—rare for these events—a flicker of introspection. Charlie Kirk’s absence lingered, not only in the front row left empty, but in the way people whispered, lingered, and wondered what would come next.JD Vance’s arrival at the podium was subdued, lacking the bravado that often characterizes these rallies. He paused, studied the room, and spoke with a gravity that cut through the restless energy—his voice softer than one might expect, the cadence deliberate, as though he was choosing every word with care. “President Trump did not build the greatest coalition in politics by running his supporters through endless, self-defeating purity tests,” Vance said, his phrasing landing almost gently. He lingered on the idea of inclusion, offering a portrait of the movement as wide-open and capacious, more invitation than litmus test. The usual applause was quieter; people listened, looking for some sign of direction amidst the churn of recent weeks.Then Vance leaned into the wound everyone felt but hadn’t voiced directly. He invoked Charlie Kirk’s memory, not as abstract eulogy, but as a call to drop the constant squabbles over who counts as “pure” enough for the cause. “The best way to honor Charlie is that none of us here should be doing something after Charlie’s death that he himself refused to do in life.” The room finally stirred, the tension breaking as activists—many nursing scars from months of factional infighting—met his words with genuine applause, not the ritual clapping that so often drowns out nuance.You could feel strands of conversation winding through the hall later: some folks wondered aloud if the conservative movement was splintering under the weight of its own reflexive gatekeeping. The online world, predictably quick to pile on or castigate, was less forgiving. Vance didn’t avoid the topic; if anything, he redirected it, noting wryly, “I didn’t bring a list of conservatives to denounce or deplatform, and I don’t really care if some people out there… I’m sure we’ll have the fake news media denounce me after this speech.” The room warmed to that—a signal that exhaustion with internal squabbles had reached its breaking point.And yet, outside the echo chamber, hostility brewed. Progressive commentator Jennifer Welch didn’t mince words about what she saw as “media manipulation,” telling viewers that networks had quit journalism in favor of propaganda. Her sharp dismissal mirrored the polarization that frames nearly every national debate these days—point and counterpoint, argument and dismissal, the endless seesaw.The sharpest moment of the weekend came in neither speech nor tweet, but in the vice president’s raw reaction to criticism of his family. During an interview with UnHerd, Vance was unambiguous: “Anyone who attacks my wife, whether their name is Jen Psaki or Nick Fuentes, can eat sh*t. That’s my official policy as vice president of the United States.” It was jarring, unvarnished—emblematic of a broader frustration with the personal ugliness that so often pervades the modern political fray. His words got shared, dissected, and condemned, but in the crowd, some nodded, recognizing the fatigue that comes from seeing loved ones become targets.For all the talk of division, Vance circled back, both onstage and off, to a message that went bigger than a single event: an insistence that bigotry and ethnic hatred have no home in this movement. “We don’t treat anybody different because of their race or their sex,” he said—an old promise, but one many still need to hear reaffirmed, especially in times when bad actors on all sides test the boundaries.As images of Charlie Kirk flickered across giant screens and his widow Erika spoke heartbreakingly on Fox about performative grief, AmericaFest felt suspended between past and future. “Send me a note if you want, but don’t posture,” Erika Kirk said, pushing back against hollow tributes by reminding everyone that comfort, when it’s needed most, comes from authenticity, not optics.Looking ahead to the 2024 election, Vance’s words—about unity, inclusion, and rejecting the urge to fracture—echo beyond the conference hall. Whether those themes can take root in the movement, or whether this weekend’s humility will be forgotten in the churn of another campaign season, is an open question. It will depend, perhaps less on the slogans of leaders, and more on whether activists and voters alike are willing to listen, quietly and honestly, to each other—perhaps, for once, without preconditions.