Remember when the Left was actually funny?
Deliberately funny, I mean, not simply ridiculous. For the youngsters who literally do not remember that (and that would be a major demographic, actually), I mean Tom-Lehrer-in-the-1960s funny; Berke-Breathed-in-the-’80s, funny. Some insight, some irony, some wit, some comic timing; an occasional moment when even we on the other side had to say “Touché!”
Honestly, kids, it was a thing—back in the day.
Perhaps there are still some actual political humorists over there on the Left, somewhere. If so, they must be awfully frustrated—for no mere witty observation or well-crafted bit of ironic expression, can compete with flagrant malice for attention in our clickbait political world. They must long for the days when “going low” was ordinary vulgarity, instead of crass personal insult; when it wasn’t yet a moral obligation for the Left to provide partisan hatred with a ginned up laugh track—or to label any wit which might reference their own follies, as partisan hatred.
The crass “comedienne” who “performed” at the White House Correspondents Dinner, is the sort of spokes-slanderer a movement is likely, eventually, to end up with when comedy is subject to party discipline. She was like something straight out of central casting if central casting were George Soros’ office. She faithfully spews forth her faction’s sentiments, with no discernible element of comedy; only the pack instinct keeps her fellow hyenas laughing madly along.
Fundamental dishonesty underlies much of Leftist humor; but perhaps the most shameless lie, is the suggestion that it’s actually funny.
“For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fool,” Ecclesiastes tells us. The scorn and malice the Left displays in its humor, keeps on heating that pot—the one in which their electoral goose is cooked.
“As a mad man who casteth firebrands, arrows, and death, So is the man that deceiveth his neighbour, and saith, Am not I in sport?” —Proverbs 26: 18-19
When the Saracen feels that his heart just might break,
With joy or with mourning, at wedding or wake,
With a catch in his throat and a tear in his eye,
He lets loose a rifle burst into the sky;
The groanings his heart cannot utter, expressed
By Kalishnikov, with much greater success.
When the tracers erupt in the mountains dark,
Woe betide anyone at the end of the arc—
But the steppes are wide, where the night wind’s brisk,
And collateral damage is acceptable risk.
The occasional cousin the rounds wound or kill
Is chalked up to Allah’s most inscrutable will.
Like jihadhis festively slinging lead
Are some pundits—but scattering lies instead;
Masked as entertainers, these slanderers who’re
Promoting contempt based upon caricature.
“Where’s your sense of humor?” the wit protests:
“Isn’t this a free country? Am I not in jest?”
Yes, the country’s still free, but your airtime costs money;
And you’re fools, but not jesters, ‘cause jesting is funny.
Mock on, Wolf and Stewart; be mirthful, Colbert,
Your full-auto chatter spray into the air—
While there’s malice and pride, you’ve an audience still—
But the laughter sounds ever more frantic and shrill.
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