So, that's it?

Not since Stormy stumbled out of a Nevada hotel room has anyone been so underwhelmed.

For four weeks, botoxed cable news hosts have been consumed, a presidential election has been hamstrung and those eating lunch have been revolted by sloppy, salacious testimony flowing like raw sewage out of a courthouse in lower Manhattan.

It's here that the first former US president in history has been put on trial for the crime of… well, we still don't know exactly.

According to the Democratic hacks in the Manhattan District Attorney's office, our 45th Commander-In-Chief once ordered a mental midget to pay a professional knob-polisher for her silence and then criminally cooked the books to hide the alleged game of hide-the-pickle.

We were assured that Gotham's portly, bail-phobic DA and his lead prosecutor – recruited from the upper echelons of the Biden Justice Department no less – knew what the heck they were doing.

Though, on Thursday, the last day of the prosecution's case, it still looked weaker than Harvey Weinstein's long jump.

If there was ever final proof that this Trivial Trial of the Century is nothing more than the utter debasement – dare I say – political pornification of the US legal system, it's this: It all hinged on the word of a for-hire, screw-job artist… and Stormy Daniels.