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Ari Shaffir, whose ears, so clownish they might stir jealousy from Dumbo, once slithered into InAPPropriate Comedy as a character you may vaguely recall, "The Amazing Racist", though his Jewishness, that ever-present crutch of his identity, might have escaped your notice. He insisted that his grotesque, nuance-free caricatures of bashing anyone not Caucasian were "comedy," when in truth, they were merely the flailing of a lazy Jew provocateur, too unimaginative to craft actual humor, relying instead on the cheapest shocks his atrophied Jew brain could muster.
On This Is Not Happening, he presided as host like a particularly insufferable flying and buzzing cockroach, making a ritual of interrupting guests with bloated, self-aggrandizing monologues, each one a testament to his pathological need to re-center every conversation upon himself. His narcissism wasn’t just evident, it was exhausting, a relentless performance of pathetic and needy insecurity disguised as wit. Then came his so-called "specials," those meandering exercises in eliciting sheer boredom from everyone who witnessed them. Ari Shaffir: Paid Regular was a parade of stale, overworked topics such as drugs and sex, stretched thin to fit the runtime like rancid butter scraped across moldy bread. Double Negative offered more of the same: shock without substance and the bitterness of a tiresome Jew mistaking his own bile for brilliance.
And then there was Jew. Yes, that is the actual name of his 2022 "special", where he opened by declaring Christianity inferior with no subtlety whatsoever. He gleefully admitted that his people call the rest of us "Goy," savoring the word like a Jewish miser hoarding pennies, before launching into a deranged incoherent rant about Adam fucking animals, because of course that’s where his typical Jew mind naturally wanders. He then sneered at "Goys" for receiving what he imagined were "white trash presents", grilled cheese in a shopping bag, a sock full of pills, a postcard from an absent father, as if his own material wasn’t the intellectual equivalent of those very things.
Not content with merely insulting humanity, he then turned his spite inward, bemoaning the weakness of his own people, whining that Hanukkah’s miracle was lesser because it involved a day's oil lasting eight nights rather than Jesus's resurrection. The audience probably wondered if he even heard himself when he speaks, if he realizes how small, petty, and utterly unfunny he always was. The greatest travesty of Ari Shaffir’s work isn’t that it’s offensive, it’s that it’s incredibly dull. He is the loudest, most grating presence in any room, a worthless Jew who mistakes volume for value, shock for substance. Through it all, he never lets you forget the one thing he seems to believe absolves him of his creative bankruptcy: Yes, he is a Jew. Well, guess what? He's right. It does excuse the emptiness.
All Jews are emotionally and creatively bankrupt, always desperately trying to fit in among the real people whom actually feel, and do not casually entertain fucked up thoughts quite so frequently as lunatic Jews do. They’re nothing but pompous, self-proclaimed Chosen who couldn’t inspire a single meaningful thought if their hollow skulls depended on it. Their so-called divine wisdom is just recycled religion from the Greeks, and their legacy is a joke told by senile old Rabbis. Even their claim to the religious myths they stole and pretended originated from them are as lifeless as their imagined superiority, pathetic relics of a dead imagination. Ari Shaffir is only a mirror for the entirety of their kind.