On to Al Franken. Stuart Smalley, that simpering, self-righteous wraith of a character, was less a parody of self-help than a grotesque caricature of human frailty, wrapped in the kind of cloying affirmations that make one long for the sweet release of silence. "I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." A mantra so devoid of wit and insight, that it could only be sustained by the sheer inertia of Franken’s smugness. I doubt the children of alcoholics, whose pain he so blithely mined for chuckles, enjoyed his shitty comedy for turning their suffering into a catchphrase. Then there is One More Saturday Night, a film so devoid of merit, so utterly barren of comedy, that it stands as a monument to the hubris of mediocre Jews who mistake their own bland personalities for humor. It is the kind of cinematic endeavor that makes one question the very nature of "acting funny", to entertain, or to punish? His departure from Saturday Night Live was not so much a fall from grace, as it was the universe correcting itself. Norm MacDonald, a man who wielded humor like a scalpel, took the seat Franken had coveted and desired to fill with his ponderous moralizing. The difference between them was simple: Norm was funny. Franken was a man who greatly misunderstood his own self-importance.

Stuart Saves His Family seemed unintentionally ironic, because irony is clearly something Franken never understood. It was a film so inept, so utterly devoid of purpose, that even its intended audience, those poor souls who might have mistaken Stuart’s platitudes for wisdom, were left puzzled after. His literary contributions? Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them, a title so dripping with projection, one might mistake it for performance art. Yet within its pages, not a whisper of criticism for his own side. A title so rich, coming from a man who spent years spinning half-truths while never criticizing the Left, because accountability is for Republicans only. Why Not Me? was a book title and a question nobody else asked about this insane Jew's desire for Presidency. Meanwhile, Al Franken Inc. operated with the ethical rigor of a back-alley shell game, no taxes, no workers’ compensation, just the hollow clatter of moral posturing without actually proving morality of any sort. In the Senate, Al Franken was a loyal foot soldier for the Democratic machine, his principles as malleable as his punchlines. He wept for the Rohingya mass murders, yes, how noble, how touching, and then signed his name to letters shielding Israel from scrutiny, as though Palestinian suffering were an inconvenient subplot in his grand narrative of righteousness.

Then, of course, the women came forward. The inevitable and predictable, for all male Jews are sad, desperate molesting creeps. Leeann Tweeden, violated under the guise of a comedy skit which she described as, "aggressively stuck his tongue in my mouth" and she pushed him away, feeling "disgusted and violated." Lindsay Menz, groped at a state fair like a cheap carnival prize. Stephanie Kemplin, a veteran who endured his grasping hands as though it were part of the price of patriotism. His resignation from the Senate was not an act of contrition, it was the bare minimum, the last scrap of dignity any vile Jew could pretend to possess. From the grating, unfunny caricatures of his early career to the hollow, disgraced shell of his political end, Al Franken’s legacy is one of unearned arrogance meeting deserved ruin. The only thing more pitiable than his comedy is the man himself, a cautionary tale on the wages of continuing to exist alive as a smug, detestable kike instead of committing suicide the very instance he learned he is a Jew.