/pol/ - Politically Incorrect

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Next, we turn our attention to Adam Goldberg, a figure most famously associated with the cinematic misfire known as The Hebrew Hammer, which staggeringly grossed a mere 0.1 times its production budget. Portraying Mordechai Jefferson Carver, the so-called Hebrew Hammer, he exudes an arrogance reminiscent of a leaky oil drum, spilling self-importance at every turn. This is a man who would deliver grandiose monologues about his own magnificence, even as his adversaries pummel him mercilessly. His entire demeanor is a desperate bid to embody the "Jewish Shaft," yet rather than exuding effortless cool, he instead presents as a pretentious film student's misguided interpretation of edginess. Much of his dialogue echoes rejected one-liners of Austin Powers, articulated with all the finesse of a Down's syndrome kid with a bucket of paint. The character is so fixated on asserting his dominance as the most formidable Jew in the vicinity that he inadvertently descends into self-parody.

The Hammer often feigns awareness of the absurdity surrounding him, just enough to be irritating, but not nearly enough to elicit genuine laughter. His attempt at acting is steeped in exaggerated Jewish clichés, amplifying negative stereotypes that, factually, almost always ring true while the positive stereotypes never do. Goldberg’s portrayal leans heavily into a grating, nasal, and hyper-assertive style that compels one to reach for the mute button within mere moments. He presents himself as a counterculture icon; yet, his rebellion is as menacing as a dreidel spinning. The fur coat, the ostentatious swagger, the ceaseless posturing—it all resembles a haphazard raid on a 1970s blaxploitation wardrobe masquerading as a personality. Each attempt at suave intimidation carries a 0 percent chance of eliciting laughter, instead inducing cringe that causes your body to seize up like hearing nails on a chalkboard. The Hebrew Hammer is crafted to be loud, brash, and intentionally absurd, yet this does nothing to mitigate his inherent grating nature. In essence, he stands as an unfunny caricature.

The Hebrew Hammer emerges as yet another cinematic stratagem orchestrated by Hollywood to advance their progressive agenda while masquerading as audacious. The Jew Adam Goldberg finds enjoyment in the current production of "The Hebrew Hammer vs. Hitler." The original film serves as a veritable Trojan horse, cloaked in the guise of a 'Jewish empowerment' narrative, yet ultimately represents yet another iteration of cultural Marxism shrouded in the guise of humor. From the outset, the entire endeavor is steeped in the forced absurdity of DEI, believing they are being subversive—but in truth, it is merely corporate-sanctioned drivel while shoving it in your face that Jews were in fact behind blaxploitation films. And let us begin to dissect the villainous portrayal—Santa Claus's progeny depicted as a white supremacist. This is precisely the sort of ludicrous anti-traditionalist drivel they peddle to instill disdain for Christmas. They are transforming Saint Nicholas into a figure akin to a KKKlansman with their heavy-handed absurdities.

As for the Hebrew Hammer himself? A lamentable appeal to the lowest common denominator. They believe that affixing a menorah to a .44 Magnum constitutes the pinnacle of comedy. In summation, "The Hebrew Hammer" is a farcical diversion of monumental foolishness, designed to obscure the reality that Jews orchestrate the machinations of Hollywood and serve as either the leaders or the puppet masters of every nation on this earth.

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It appears I am causing frustrated impotence in the mind of LiberofLove333 regarding his tribe, a type of rage-based impotence he is most assuredly used to as he frequently exposes his tribe of Jews - laying them bare as collectors of depraved animal mutilation which they jerk off to furiously. Thus, let us proceed.

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Next in line is Adam Levine, who carries himself as though he were divinely bestowed upon the realms of music, women, and basic human decency—Though he possesses none of these virtues. Levine's self-satisfied, smug countenance in interviews and performances emanates the air of a man utterly convinced of his own grandeur, despite the relentless decline of Maroon 5 into the abyss of musical irrelevance. From his role on The Voice to the Super Bowl halftime spectacle, Levine desperately clings to any flicker of limelight, even if it necessitates a descent into self-debasement. His 2019 Super Bowl appearance was a soulless, autotuned catastrophe, culminating in a shameless display as he tore off his shirt mid-performance, reminiscent of a budget Chippendales act employing the elderly. Levine’s entire persona screams, “I am a sex symbol, please believe me.” His music videos—Animals, Girls Like You, Sugar—are cringeworthy exhibitions where he leers at women while striving far too hard to reclaim his youth. Animals, in particular, was met with widespread condemnation for its unsettlingly predatory undertones. Which is quite characteristic of the Jewish tribe's males in general. This is the same Jew who crooned She Will Be Loved as if he were a sensitive romantic, yet in the realm of reality, he betrayed his wife Behati Prinsloo on multiple occasions. Leaked texts from 2022 unveiled his flirtatious (and painfully awkward) overtures to another woman while his wife was with child. Maroon 5 has swiftly devolved into a purveyor of corporate drivel. Moves Like Jagger, Sugar, Memories—each track more vacuous than its predecessor. Levine’s sellout mentality is so pronounced that his music might as well serve as a commercial for a collaboration between McDonald’s and Pfizer.

While Levine endeavors to project an image of a charming, affable gentleman during televised interviews, it comes as no surprise that he has repeatedly lost his composure, his barely concealed Jewish rage bubbling to the surface. His tattoos, incessant shirtlessness, and forced “rockstar” persona scream of a midlife crisis. Levine resembles a former high-school jock in his forties, blissfully unaware that the world has moved on. “I’m not in the right profession if I can’t handle a little bit of controversy,” he proclaimed regarding Maroon 5’s 2019 Super Bowl Halftime Show, a testament to how little the Jews truly regard Negroes, especially in the wake of the Colin Kaepernick protests. The internet took delight in mocking him for embodying a middle-aged man trying desperately to relive the glories of 2007. That performance was subsequently deemed one of the worst halftime shows in history, solidifying Maroon 5’s status as a quintessential sellout band and Levine as a spineless opportunist. Adam stands as the very embodiment of a waning pop star clinging to relevance. His vocal stylings are grating, overly feminized, and cringe-inducing. His scandals reveal him to be nothing more than a heartless ass. She Will Be Loved—and what comes next? Infidelity rooted in his small dick energy.

Animals was not a romantic ode; it was a public service announcement advocating for restraining orders. His sporadic discussions of “social justice” while cashing NFL paychecks render him a hollow walking virtue signal—full of rhetoric yet devoid of substance, much like the rest of Hollywood Jews. The parasite is stuck believing he has never aged while resembling a worn-out yoga instructor under the influence of meth. His fanbase consists of brainwashed middle-aged women who maintain cat sanctuaries filled with stray felines, fervently applauding Maroon 5’s corporate-sanctioned, focus-group-tested drivel meticulously sterilized for mass consumption. His abysmal output is a form of mental programming tailored for the most desperate of female recluses who declare, “I don’t need no man” because they can’t get a man.

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Adam Sandler has always been but a singular act, his comedic repertoire as threadbare as the patience of those compelled to endure his juvenile, grating, and lazily recycled brand of humor. The entirety of his career rests upon the portrayal of the same loud, emotionally stunted man-child, a role he has mastered in various iterations. Whether in Billy Madison, Happy Gilmore, or Big Daddy, his characters languish in the character that seems natural to him of the obnoxious, whiny, overgrown toddler who inexplicably stumbles into success. His comedic arsenal is a cacophony of screams, tantrums, and the perplexing notion that incompetence is somehow amusing. The films he produces are inundated with the laziest of jokes, appealing to the lowest common denominator—fart gags, bodily functions (as exemplified by Click’s infamous diarrhea scene), and painfully unfunny vocal affectations (recall The Waterboy’s "Mama says."). Even in his more earnest endeavors, such as Uncut Gems, he cannot resist the siren call of his signature frenetic, irksome delivery.

Sandler’s tenure on Saturday Night Live often represented the pile of shit of any episode. His recurring characters—Opera Man (a shrill, unfunny mess), Cajun Man (a lazy ear-grating accent), and Canteen Boy (a creepy and predatory persona fitting his tribe well) - were exercises in endurance for the audience. His musical offerings, like The Chanukah Song, were grating at best.

In his recorded works—The Adam Sandler Tape and They’re All Gonna Laugh at You!, he indulged in some of the most juvenile and grotesque “humor” conceivable: impersonating a grandmother fixated on familial cock and balls or perpetrating deceptions about an audio tape of two gay guys fucking. These “jokes” evaded the realm of intelligence by a mile, instead embodying disgusting shock value masquerading as comedy. Sandler's later career unfolds as a procession of lazy, self-indulgent drivel, casting his obnoxious cronies (Rob Schneider, Kevin James, David Spade) in interchangeable roles. Films such as Grown Ups, Jack and Jill, and The Ridiculous 6 serve merely as paid holidays disguised as cinematic endeavors. His Netflix agreement unfolds as a ruse, a shameless cash grab wherein he churns out half-hearted "comedies" (like Hubie Halloween and Murder Mystery) with negligible effort. Hollywood may wish to paint Sandler as the "lovable goofball," yet his films exude an air of smug self-satisfaction. For decades, he has coasted on a wave of loud and foolish antics, forever anchored to a mentality that seems perpetually adolescent.

Recall, if you can, Sandler's SNL skit Schmitts Gay beer, a blatant exhibition of homosexuality that echoes themes from They’re All Gonna Laugh at You! and Toll Booth Willie. The Gap Girls showcased Sandler as a drag tranny, while Murder Mystery presents Jennifer Aniston as the “strong, independent woman,” contrasting with Sandler's portrayal of the bumbling fool. In Hubie Halloween, why do all the eccentric characters conform to LGBTQ+ or minority tropes? The answer lies in an all too common factor —> Because he is a Jew.

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Adrien Brody is an actor of peculiar proclivities, having carved a niche in the realm of the bizarre and the pretentious. His career, a tapestry woven with threads of awkward eccentricity and self-importance, reveals a man convinced that every role demands the same brooding, whispering gravitas. In The Pianist, he spends much of the narrative gazing into the void, eyes sunken, sullen as if haunted by specters of irrational fears that the National Socialist specters (only in his head as monsters) themselves might eavesdrop, even when he's in solitude. In The Village, Brody’s portrayal of the village idiot is delivered with such halting, stilted mumbling that one questions whether he misunderstood the script, or simply sought to confound the audience with cryptic insanity. His peculiar cadence raises doubts: is this a misstep or an act of deliberate irritation?

In King Kong, he embodies Jack Driscoll as a jittery, pompous moron, reciting lines as if Shakespeare’s ghost would dare to inhabit his creepy, vile and sickly Jew body. Meanwhile in The Darjeeling Limited, his portrayal of a mournful, sensitive scribe is amplified to an absurd eleven: mopey, melodramatic, claiming the world’s indifference to his imagined suffering. Then in Splice, Brody ventures into the grotesque, playing a scientist obsessively attached to his mutant muse, an unearthly creature with disjointed eyes, highlighting the eternally common disturbing attractions of the Jews to the repulsive and the deformed. His oscillations between paternal creepiness and outright bewilderment oscillates between creepy dad and "why the hell are you trying to fuck the monster?" energy. He is always unsettling, a testament to every Jews' uncanny ability to rouse any person's discomfort.

His hosting of Saturday Night Live became a spectacle of cultural fuckery while other famous people were in trouble for blackface: dreadlocks, a Jamaican accent so poorly executed, it culminated in a cringe-worthy parody of a reggae singer, "Ras Trent." Critics, unsurprisingly, were labeled racist for merely noting the cultural theft, an ironic twist in the grand theater of political correctness. Yet Brody never saw penalties for his blatant negro mockery - because he is a Jew. Ever the paradox, he attempted to elevate himself above Hollywood’s mechanical nature, pretending reverence for "the craft" with the solemnity of a medieval monk, yet has participated gleefully in cinematic trash like Predators, which tarnish the honor of the Yautja and their codes, undermining the very mythos the way Jews tend to enjoy. When are Jews not deliberately sabotaging established stories and characters?

Brody personifies an avatar of Jewish deception and self-importance, whether he's portraying a fake Holocaust survivor, attempting to brainwash audiences into believing in a flawed, mathematical fraud; a scientist fetishizing mutation; or a Rastafarian caricature. His attempts at humor are always failures of a Jew attempting to imitate the human condition. The Pianist, then, is but another iteration of the Jewish Holocaust brainwashing genre, Brody wandering about in a perpetual state of starvation and despair, an imitation of an undead zombie. Jewlywood, in its insatiable appetite, serves us these tales to evoke gullible guilt, all while pushing their typical agendas rooted in and influencing the braindead masses. He gained an Oscar for it, which is clear and not even clever Jewish orchestration.

Splice embodies the Jews' dark fantasies, playing god, dismantling the natural order, creating monstrosities precisely in how hideous their image is. The narrative's superficial concern with "what is humanity" speaks volumes about how much these inhuman parasites understand humanity. Brody, in interviews, waxes poetic about "artistic integrity," yet in his selections of roles, crying about climate change on Netflix, typically melodramatic and pathetic, he reveals himself as a very willing pawn in Hollywood’s grand design: to manipulate, confuse and ensnare the unintelligent into a modern woke, DEI dystopia.

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Akiva Schaffer's writing career is a trainwreck. He's a Jew who has somehow convinced Hollywood that his brand of painfully forced, try-hard "comedy" is worth greenlighting. In truth, his oeuvre is a masterclass in the trifecta of creative bankruptcy: cringe, lethargy, and a staggering lack of originality.

Consider The Lonely Island’s most grating offerings. "Just 2 Guyz" and "We Like Sportz"—where the pinnacle of wit is a single joke stretched thin over a few minutes, like nails scraped over a chalkboard continuously. The premise? A juvenile sneer at athleticism, delivered with all the self-awareness of a typically weak Jew still bitter for being shoved into lockers. "We'll Kill U" is a rap parody so devoid of satire that it mistakes monotone menace for cleverness, as if the mere act of Caucasian (but in reality, Jewish) boys affecting gangsta postures were inherently hilarious. "Lazy Sunday" is a relic of mid-2000s humor: The Chronic-what-cles of Narnia. This is the pinnacle of mid-2000s "lol so relatable" humor that aged like milk.

Schaffer's cinematic endeavors are no better. "Extreme Movie"—a film so devoid of humor it makes Snakes on a Plane seem like Citizen Kane by comparison. Peddling the most banal of sex jokes, as if written by a virgin hoping to infect the world with his own bewilderment, the humor barely relates to sex at all. Kevin Hart’s cameo is little more than a negro panicked and shouting because obese nigger woman in lingerie so scary - yet to negro men it's really not and primarily what they're attracted to. "Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping" is a satire with no teeth, content to lob limp observations at pop culture it only understands because the tribe themselves have elevated them to such a status. The joke, of course, is that pop stars are vapid, but never covering whom brought such idiots to fame in the first place. Jewish record producers.

Then there is "Alone Together", the cinematic equivalent of watching paint dry while someone whispers "this is deep" in your ear. It is a pandemic drama of a pretentious, meandering snoozefest written by a Jew that is only familiar with banal comedy. Mood is mistaken for substance, glacial pacing for artistic restraint, and Katie Holmes staring blankly into the middle distance for acting. Holmes and Sturgess proceed to merely exist near each other while the film mistakes awkward silence for profound connection. Akiva Schaffer's writing here is as limp as his comedy, characters so stilted that they decompose in real time, like a diced Jew forgotten in the back of the freezer. Scenes drag on similar to a Zoom call with no agenda, and the film’s idea of tension is whether or not these two wet blankets will mildly inconvenience each other some more. When the climax of your movie is two people deciding to maybe, possibly, not hate each other, Schaffer hasn’t crafted a poignant drama, he has written a therapy session no one asked to attend.

Schaffer’s work is, as one expects of the Jews, laced with contempt. "Just 2 Guyz" and "We Like Sportz" mock physicality, a classic deflection from those whom have never known it. "We'll Kill U" ridicules Caucasians mindlessly into shitty rap music, though of course, the joke is hollow when Jewish executives handpicked the most witless Negro rappers to begin with that lulled in dimwits to be able to mock. The Bin Laden song, turning the Jews' own orchestrated terror into a punchline, desensitizing the masses for the next staged tragedy. "Popstar" is perhaps the most insidious—a mockumentary normalizing the grotesque narcissism of celebrity, the hollow spectacle of gay weddings and the infiltration of Jewish influence. Schaffer is no mere writer; he is a typical Jewish psychological operative, conditioning the public with dim jokes that dull the senses. Now that Leslie Neilsen is dead, Shaffer is primed to shit all over the man's legacy with a Naked Gun remake whose trailer already looks like a polished turd set to ruin Liam Neeson's career because Jewlywood can't understand originality.

Nice thread.
So the bitch in the back is crying how hollywierd still wants you.
Truly a industry that wants nothing less then your soul.

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Reid.

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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.

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Al Jolson was a self-anointed "World’s Greatest Entertainer," a title as hollow as the Jew himself. He was a grotesquerie of ego and performance, a goblin-like creature (similar to so many of his tribe) who mistook blackface for artistry, guising himself in burnt cork and minstrelsy as if it were the mantle of genius. His signature role, "Gus," was not merely a character but a confession. A lazy, dim-witted caricature that revealed precisely what Jolson thought of negroes, distilled into a crude performance. Yes, he got away with making a career out of blackface as much as Robert Down's Syndrome Junior, only because he is a Jew. His 1927 The Jazz Singer is often lauded as a milestone, but in truth, it was little more than a maudlin exercise in self-pity, weeping over his Jewish heritage while profiting from the mockery of negroes. Then there was A Plantation Act, where he saw fit to croon "April Showers" in blackface, as though the world needed yet another reminder of his staggering lack of taste. His life was merely a chronicle of extreme narcissism. The Singing Fool was an exercise in ham-fisted melodrama, complete with the cloying "Sonny Boy," a song so dripping with false sentiment it would make even the stoutest man choke back impending vomit. Say It with Songs was another act of self-mythologizing, a flimsy narrative stretched thin over his bellowing. Mammy, ah, the title alone is an indictment as yet another parade of blackface and minstrel buffoonery, his voice blaring as though volume could compensate for substance. Big Boy was an entire film built around the ludicrous spectacle of Jolson playing a negro jockey in blackface, a concept so absurd it was self-parody.

Even when he stepped away from blackface, as in Hallelujah, I’m a Bum - he remained insufferable, playing a hobo with the same desperate, look-at-me energy that defined his career. By The Singing Kid, he was a relic, clinging to relevance by sharing the screen with actual negro jazz singer Cab Calloway, a juxtaposition that only highlighted Jolson's own artistic bankruptcy. Rose of Washington Square was less a tribute to the hideous Jewess Fanny Brice than a shameless act of identity theft, with Jolson once again commandeering the spotlight to bellow "My Mammy" as though anyone had asked him to. Jolson Sings Again was only more vanity, as he cast himself in a self-biopic, which might have been a flattering revision of his terrible life if he hadn't himself starred in it. His later years were marked by a desperate bid for relevance, performing for troops in WWII and Korea like a sycophant virtue-signaling towards brainwashed soldiers literally called Dog-men due to their brainless loyalty to the Jews. But the universe, uncommonly just, exacted its toll and malaria stole Jolson's lung, as though punishing him for a lifetime of sucking the air from every room. Then, in 1950, at the St. Francis Hotel in San Franciso, his heart finally gave out, crushed beneath the weight of his own ego.

Al Jolson was no artist. He was a gimmicky Jew, a blackface relying twat who confused volume for virtuosity and caricature for charm. His films are unwatchable, his legacy yet another cautionary tale of what happens when one realizes they're a Jew and doesn't immediately blow their own brains out. The only thing "great" about him was the sheer audacity of his delusions, the belief that the world would remember him as anything but an obnoxious relic of a demented past.