I Hate "Seinfeld"

Cancel Seinfeld. It's Just Four Neurotics Screaming in a Void.

By Bill Murray, National Treasure and Sitcom Survivor

You ever wake up in a hotel room in Helsinki with a half-eaten Reuben on your chest, “Seinfeld” reruns blaring from the TV, and you start to wonder if God has abandoned us?

Yeah. That happened to me. And that’s why I’m writing this.

Listen, I’ve had a long, strange, beautiful career filled with ghosts, gophers, and inexplicably nude Swedish tennis instructors. But nothing — nothing — haunts me like the slow, nasal drone of a man whining about soup.

I’m gonna say it. And I mean it. It's time to take Seinfeld off the air. Everywhere. Globally. Digitally. Cosmically. We need a ritual cleansing. Possibly with fire.

The Show About Nothing Ruined Everything

You know what else is about nothing? Nihilism. And existential dread. And my last three relationships. But only one of those gets rerun 87 times a day across eight platforms.

They called it “brilliant.” I call it a hostage video from the Upper West Side. Every episode is a lesson in how to do a whole lot of something with absolutely no emotional payoff. It’s like watching four adult toddlers argue in a sandbox made of concrete and sarcasm.

Jerry Seinfeld Has One Emotion: Smug

You ever notice Jerry’s face doesn’t move when he talks? He’s like a ventriloquist dummy possessed by the ghost of white privilege. And that voice — the vocal equivalent of a salad fork scraping glass — has narrated America’s slow moral decline one shrug at a time.

“What’s the deal with airline food?”

I dunno, Jer. What’s the deal with a 38-year-old dating a high school senior and still being considered "quirky"?

George Costanza Is a Bioweapon of Anxiety

George is what happens when you microwave a bag of neuroses and forget to pierce the plastic. He’s every CVS receipt rolled into a man. He’s the human version of that smell when you leave wet laundry in the machine for too long.

And America worships him like some kind of bald goblin prophet.

Elaine Is a Fever Dream Dressed by a Clearance Rack

Elaine Benes was supposed to be the “cool girl.” Instead, she’s what happens when your therapist starts freebasing cold brew. She dances like she’s battling a demon only she can see, and every boyfriend she has ends up in a coma, jail, or Vermont.

That’s not character development — that’s final destination.

Kramer Is a Metaphysical Threat

Kramer slides into rooms like he’s running from the concept of responsibility. He’s either a genius or a man who accidentally ate drywall insulation as a child. You know how in the Bible, angels always say “be not afraid” when they show up? That’s Kramer.

The hair alone violates the Geneva Convention.

This Show Is Still on TV Because Boomers Refuse to Die

Let’s be honest. The only reason Seinfeld reruns exist is because every dad born before 1965 needs something to watch while falling asleep on the recliner. It's comfort food for the emotionally repressed.

But we’re better than that now. We have Ted Lasso. We have YouTube raccoon rescue videos. We have ketamine therapy, for crying out loud.

I’d Rather Be Trapped in a Haunted Blockbuster Than Watch This Again

And I have been. Twice.

One time I watched 12 hours of Seinfeld on a flight from Tokyo because the only other option was a 1993 documentary on gravel. And I still chose gravel for the last three hours. Because at least gravel doesn’t try to be clever.

Kill the Reruns, Free the People

Let’s stop pretending this show is sacred. Let’s put it in a vault and bury it beneath a roller rink in Akron. Or better yet, beam it into space as a warning to aliens: This is what happens when you give four theater kids a sitcom and no adult supervision.

Delete Seinfeld. And if you need background noise while folding laundry, I recommend Buddhist chanting, a jazz station out of Detroit, or literally any episode of Frasier. At least he was trying.

Final Thought

Comedy should make you laugh, or cry, or at the very least feel alive. Seinfeld makes me want to crawl into a dryer and set it to “delicate, no hope.”

Pull the plug, America. Pull. The. Plug.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional op-ed by a fictional version of Bill Murray who may or may not have been drinking mezcal in a sauna with Tom Waits while writing this. It is a human-generated satire and not the result of AI, aliens, or George Costanza’s self-published memoirs.

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