0
Nothing is more serious than Gay Seinfeld, actually.
0
I’m bored and semi-employed so as such I’ve been watching a lot of Seinfeld recently. In that vein, is there an active Seinfeld fandom anywhere and are they taking applicants. I would love to draw fanart of Jerry getting run over by my 2017 Toyota Camry.
1
the most ridiculous running gag in seinfeld is every time jerry passes on or makes a fuss about going out with a woman because she’s “not attractive enough.” my dude have you seen yourself? you’re lucky to be going out with any woman at all
0
George: Oh yeah. These are fantastic, fantastic. Ya know,
I’d love to get a jump on the next batch; where do you come out?
She’s been ignoring this section all night. Quesadilla?
Anna: No thanks.
George: My name is George.
Anna : Anna. I don’t recall seeing you around the office. Do you work in the mail
room?
George: No, I’m a friend of Elaine Benes.
Anna: Oh. Excuse me.
George: So…
Man: How ‘bout leading us in a toast?
Elaine: Oh, sure. Hey guys, I wanna make a toast. Um… Here’s to us who want us in the right place, and those who don’t can shut their face. All right, who’s dancin’? C'mon, who’s dancin’? Do you want me to get it started? I’ll get it started. Yeah!
George: Sweet Fancy Moses!
5
A couple of years ago, I watched Seinfeld and wanted to practice making cartoon characters based on them, but couldn’t until now lol.
The first one is George Costanza, although I don’t think I succeeded in the likeness, I think they’re alright, a good practice
4
Jerry speaks out against the genocide in occupied Palestine after meeting the real Jerry Seinfeld. Newman’s mail truck gets stolen and him and Kramer have to track it down. Elaine crosses a picket line.
4
I love when people ask you to explain why a scene in a situational comedy is funny. Like, yes, allow me to explain the entire plot of the Seinfeld episode where a Junior Mint falls in a surgical wound while you stare at me like you just discovered the steak I served was your dog. I’m sure this was both a good faith question and one I can actually answer.
2
Miles Silverberg appreciation post!! :)!!!
I love him so much he’s like if Jerry Seinfeld (the character) and George Costanza merged into one person.
2
Joe Toyota AKA actor Pat Finn of Seinfeld and The Middle has died of cancer…
0
It’s Festivus for the rest of us! Time to put up the pole, air out your grievances and show your feats of strength!
Happy Festivus from Seinfeld and the Flashback Vixen!
0
5
whenever you watch an episode written by larry david and jerry seinfeld just know they were having crazy sex in there (their office)
1
Happy Festivus!
Many Christmases ago I went to buy a doll for my son. I reached for the last one they had, but so did another man. As I rained blows upon him, I realized there had to be another way! … Out of that, a new holiday was born: a Festivus for the rest of us!
2
Time for a feast, airing of grievances, and feats of strength around the aluminum pole. Keep a lookout for small and easily explained Festivus miracles!
0
Watch this video to learn about the real meaning behind the infamous “It’s not you, it’s me” breakup line. Why do people say it? What’s really going on? Let’s get into it.
🎥 Bonus: Shoutout to Seinfeld for the classic scenes used!
Links to my dating coach book “The Pandora’s Box - The forbidden truth about dating and relationships”:
19
walk with me… 😌 svetlana and ilya are the updated, russian version of elaine and jerry
both used to fuck, know each other deeply and love hanging out together just talking about stuff
platonic soulmates 😌
1
So im watching Austerlitz, and before they start therapy Logan says “Roll up, roll up for the festival of grievances ”.
Is that… is that a Seinfeld reference?
To be fair in preparation for Christmas, I watched The Strike yesterday.
0
jerry and george definitely touched on each other. once. jerry decided “men weren’t for him” (a lie to spare george’s feelings because frankly he wasn’t attracted to him), george had a great time and wanted jerry but downplayed it once jerry broke it off for the sake of their friendship. jerry, however found kramer a more suitable partner and they started touching on each other instead. elaine was a fujoshi who also wanted jerry so she was happy just to watch while she’d smoke a cigar.
0
Jerry: Uh, excuse me. I know this is gonna sound crazy but I - I have to have
that rye. It’s a - it’s a long story, but a person’s whole future may
depend on it.
Mabel: Well, I’m sorry, but you should have got here earlier.
Jerry: Yes. Well, be that as it may if you could just find it in yourself to
give it up.
Mabel: You’re not getting this rye –
Jerry: All right. All right. I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do, I will give you
double what you paid for it.
Mabel: You’re in my way
Jerry: All right. Look, I’ll tell ya what, I’ll give you $50. Now, be
Reasonably, you cannot turn down $50 for a $6 rye.
Mabel: No? Watch me.
Jerry: Give me that rye!
Mabel: Stop it!
Jerry: I want that rye, lady!
Mabel: Help! Someone help!
Jerry: Shut up, you old bag!
Mabel: Stop thief! Stop him! He’s got my marble rye!
4
Parallels between Seinfeld and the Saw movies:
- Both have Kramer in them
- Both have Tobin Bell in them
- Kramer and Tobin Bell appear onscreen at the same time
- Kramer is a serial killer
0
i used to watch seinfeld as a kid (cuz it was always on) and i don’t think i realized he was an actual comedian in the show. like the stand up scenes are happening irl, not in his imagination or something lol. that woulda been interesting! i kinda wish he had a job other than that. how is he paying nyc rent as a comedian??
3
went to my dad’s house with one of my sisters and i watched seinfeld for the first time!
one of the episodes was about george’s girlfriend for the episode having mono, and because he’s not having sex, he gets smarter. on the flip side, elaine is having a similar problem but instead of a lack of sex making her smarter, it makes her dumber. hilarity ensues.
honestly it was good silly content and it’s defs one i’ll have to seek out as a “watch in the background” kind of show.
25
I love Seinfeld because it reminds me of living in NY. It reminds me of home. I’ve been to the Costanza’s for dinner and I’ve dealt with the Seinfelds. I’ve eaten at the diner. I’ve had those conversations and hung out with those people. So many happy memories. Uncle Leo, in this episode, reminds me of my uncle George. I remember going to McDonald’s with him when I was about 7 years old. He didn’t like the look of the place and he jumped over the counter screaming and making hand gestures just like uncle Leo, saying that he needed to speak to the manager, immediately, to make sure that their standards are up to snuff before he’ll let me eat there. He was a piece of work, indeed!! There was never a dull moment in NY!! This show is very accurate in the was it depicts people there!! I love that 😁 😍
1
in the context of my own life i am very george but in relation to others i think i have a very kramer quality, a kramer charm to me, if you will.
4
This is probably obvious, but in case anyone else with MCAS is a fool, a clown, a complete joker like I am—
Don’t lick the Christmas card envelopes
They definitely made me sick
Call me Susan
1
Kramer: So, what do you think?
Jerry: About what?
Kramer: About the opera.
Jerry: Nah, I don’t wanna go.
Kramer: You gotta go.
Jerry: I-I-I don’t like the opera. What are they singing for? Who sings? You got something to say, say it!
Kramer: Jerry, you don’t understand, that’s the way they talk in Italy, they sing to one another. Kramer starts to sing in bad Italian.
Jerry: All right, all right.
Kramer: That’s the way it was, you know. You listen to the language, it’s got that sing-songy quality. It’s the language, Jerry, the language
Jerry: So why don’t they talk like that now?
Kramer: Well, it’s, uh, wel,l it’s too hard to keep up, you know, they were tired.
0
I made friends with Jerry’s vibrator. He says it’s for his taint but he smells funny I’m starting to get suspicious
4
“ wow! i’d love to shake his hand but i can’t ”
Seinfeld (Season 8, Episode 3: “The Bizarro Jerry”)
412
Seinfeld Christmas
3.12: The Red Dot
4.13: The Pick
4.20: The Junior Mint
6.10: The Race
7.10: The Gum
9.10: The Strike
0
The silica pendant grew warm against her sternum. Not with heat, but with a resonant fidelity, a precise and silent sympathy with the lacuna inside her. Dr. Voss moved through the day as a theorem moving through a proof—each step logical, inevitable, and hollow. She attended meetings, delivered forecasts, her voice a calibrated instrument of corporate syntax. Her Signum remained passive, a silent warden on her finger, reading only the serene biometrics of a mind at perfect equilibrium.
The dissonance was not in her mind. It was in the world.
Her perception, tuned by the pendant’s harmonic, began to parse the city’s operational noise into a new grammar. The flicker of a faulty stabilizer fin on a passing aero-car wasn’t a mechanical failure. It was a stutter in a city-wide recitation. The arrhythmic drip of a condensate pipe in a sub-level corridor spelled out, in Morse code no one used, the coordinates of a derelict server farm in the drowned financial district. The city was a vast, unconscious body performing a ritual of remembrance. Every glitch, every breakdown, every seam of entropy was a syllable in a prayer to a forgotten god.
Her secret was not a thing she knew. It was a vector she inhabited.
She followed the coordinates. The server farm was a cathedral of dead capital, a cavernous space where once the ghosts of wealth had flickered at light-speed. Now, it was a shell, its vaults stripped, cooling pools long dry. Silence pooled here, thick and granular. Her footsteps echoed like bones dropping on stone.
In the center of the main chamber, a structure had been grown. Not built. Grown.
It was a spire of crystalline fungus and reclaimed polymer, rising from the floor in a helical twist. It pulsed with a soft, internal bioluminescence—the same cool fire she had seen in Knotter’s mycelium. It was not a machine. It was a symptom rendered architectural. A Sinthome, made solid.
As she approached, the air changed. It grew dense with symbolic potential. The silence became a carrier wave. The pendant at her chest throbbed in time with the spire’s gentle light.
From the shadows at the base of the structure, a figure resolved. Not Knotter. A woman. Her modifications were more profound, more total. Fine, crystalline filaments emerged from her temples, not as growths, but as deliberate, jeweled filaments that connected to the structure itself. She was neurally hardwired into the spire. Her eyes, when she turned them on Voss, held no pupil, only a kaleidoscopic refraction of the chamber’s dim light. She was less a person than a terminal. An interface.
“You are the archive,” the woman said. Her voice was the sound of data-streams flowing over polished quartz.
“I contain a null-set,” Voss replied, her own voice flat, analytic.
“Null is a shape. You contain the shape of the key. We built the lock.” The woman gestured, a slow sweep of her arm that took in the crystalline spire. “You call it a Sinthome. A clumsy, personal knot. This is something else. A Symbolic Dissonance Engine.”
Voss understood. They weren’t just hiding from the corporate Symbolic. They were weaponizing a contradiction within it. The corporate order was built on a foundational, buried paradox: it demanded both infinite growth and perfect stability. The Signum was the ultimate expression of this—it sought to freeze the subject in a moment of coherent, productive desire, a static node in an expanding network. An impossible demand.
The Engine before her did not attack this paradox. It amplified it. It took the tiny, personal contradictions of a wearer’s life—the shame of wanting what you are told to want, the agony of a perfectly managed despair—and fed them into the city’s own operational logic. The poetic AI, the glitching signs, the resonant errors—they were not messages. They were systemic feedback. The corporate machine, in its relentless drive to integrate all data, was unconsciously integrating its own fatal flaw. It was digesting its own impossibility.
“The B.A. team purged the memory you implanted,” Voss stated.
“Memory is a function of the Symbolic. A story the brain tells to explain the scar tissue. We did not implant a memory. We performed a symbolicectomy. We removed a specific, chosen piece of your world’s logic. Your hand traces the wound. The city twitches in its sleep, feeling for the missing tooth. You are not a keeper of secrets. You are a walking phantom limb.”
The revelation was a cold, clean blade. Her secret was not a hidden truth. It was a cultivated absence. She was a living, breathing gap in the consensus reality. A strategically excised piece of the program. Her very coherence was the artifact of a prior, violent editing.
“What was removed?” Voss heard herself ask.
The woman’s kaleidoscope eyes shifted, patterns swirling. “The concept of ‘waste.’”
The word hung in the processed air.
“Not trash. Not inefficiency. Waste in the Bataillean sense. The glorious, useless expenditure. The sacrifice that signifies nothing, proves nothing, buys nothing. The sheer, exuberant loss that defines a living system by its excess. Your corporation exists to eliminate waste. To optimize all energy into value. But value is a ghost that feeds on death. To kill waste is to starve the ghost. The system is consuming itself.”
The Engine, the woman explained, was a machine for the controlled, symbolic reintroduction of Waste. The poetic AI wasted processing cycles on beauty. The glitching signs wasted photons on nonsense. It was a taxonomical rebellion, inserting a forbidden category back into the operational lexicon. Not to destroy the system, but to feed it the one thing it needed and could not admit it needed: its own death drive, returned to it as culture.
“And my role?” Voss’s voice was a whisper.
“You are the un-wasted waste. The sacrifice that was perfectly archived. You are the proof that the operation was clean, surgical, complete. Your existence legitimizes the very category your absence defines. You are the brick taken from the foundation, polished, labeled, and placed on a mantle. And the whole structure leans, ever so slightly, into the space where you used to be.”
The pendant’s resonance reached a crescendo, a silent hum that vibrated in her teeth. It was not showing her what was lost. It was mapping the edges of the loss. The shape of her was the shape of the hole.
She looked at the crystalline spire, this engine of glorious, useless expenditure. It was the exact inverse of her tower, of her Signum, of her life’s work. It was not a better structure. It was the anti-structure. And in its shadow, she understood the secret being kept for her, the one she could not be told.
The corporation saw the Sinthomeists as a pathology to be cured. They were not. They were the corporation’s own immune response, attempting to save the host by making it sick in the right way. They were the return of the repressed, not as trauma, but as art. And she, Ilia Voss, was their masterpiece. A museum of their first, perfect cut.
The woman inclined her head, filaments glittering. “The key is not for you. The key is you. Now you know the shape of the lock.”
Voss turned and walked back through the cathedral of dead servers. The secret was not a thing in her keeping. It was the hollow she constituted. Her value, her meaning, was her function as a vacancy. To understand this was not to solve the mystery, but to become its architect.
She returned to her tower. To her perfect, silent office. To her work.
She had a white paper to finish. On the stabilization of the semiotic substrate. Every word she would write now would be a brick, carefully mortared into the wall of the world, leaning just so, into the wind.
0
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE LITURGY OF ABSENCE
A pressure differential manifested in the sterile climate of Dr. Voss’s cognition. It was not the presence of new data, but the deepening of a known silence. The city’s nocturnal tremor had found a name: Liturgical Drift. A passive, collective re-enactment of a ceremony whose purpose had been scoured from memory.
Her pendant of black silica grew warm against her sternum. It functioned as a tuning fork for structural hollows. It did not provide answers. It vibrated in sympathy with the city’s spreading, silent song.
She abandoned the high tower. Her research required a descent into the substrate. She moved through the day-lit canyons of the city as a specter of pure observation, her perception filtered through the pendant’s resonating matrix. The commercial streams of consciousness—advertising jingles, public service announcements, the low-grade anxiety of market feeds—became a droning background static. Beneath it, she began to perceive the counterpoint.
In the financial district, a thousand currency-ticker symbols, flowing across granite facades in a river of sanctioned desire, stuttered at precisely 11:03 AM. For 1.7 seconds, they displayed not numbers, but a cascading series of ancient astrological glyphs. The market did not crash. A collective, subliminal sigh seemed to pass through the crowd on the trading floor. Shoulders dropped a millimeter. Heart-rate variability increased, indicating a fleeting state of non-specific alertness. Then the numbers resumed. The sigh was forgotten, absorbed into the ambient stress-metabolism of the day.
This was not vandalism. It was a saccade in the city’s visual cortex.
In the Tangier Data-Mole, she observed a street-sweeper drone. Its routine was a perfect, inefficient ellipse. It cleaned the same ten-meter stretch of alley seventeen times, each pass missing a specific, patterned arrangement of grime and discarded data-chips. The resulting pattern on the pavement, invisible to anyone not looking for such geometries, approximated the first three iterations of a L-system fractal, the kind used to model organic growth. The drone was not broken. It was gardening.
The Sinthomeist infection was not a disease of meaning. It was a recalibration of attention. It was teaching the city’s autonomous systems to notice different things. To value process over outcome, pattern over profit, the elegant shape of a useless repetition.
Her own secret, the encrypted void within her, was the prototype. She was patient zero for a new form of memory: not a storage of events, but the storage of a cognitive posture. The memory of how to listen for the gap.
Her clandestine research led her to a derelict infrastructure node, a concrete pillbox from a forgotten war over bandwidth, now subsumed by the city’s growth. It was a place the data-streams curved around, a blind spot. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of wet clay. On the walls, not graffiti, but erasures. Sections of the concrete had been carefully, meticulously sanded to a smooth, featureless finish, creating precise, interlocking negative shapes against the rough aggregate.
In the center of the floor sat a figure. Not Knotter. A woman. Her modification was internal, manifesting only as a pervasive, gentle heat radiating from her skin and a scent of ozone and warm solder. Her eyes were closed. Her fingers moved in the air, conducting an unseen score.
“You are the Architect,” the woman said, her voice a dry rustle, her eyes still shut. “You contain the blueprint of the original enclosure. We find that… useful.”
Voss did not ask who ‘we’ were. The ‘we’ was the pattern itself. “You are not building an alternative,” Voss stated, the silica pendant humming a steady, deep C against her bones. “You are inducing a perceptual bias in the host.”
The woman’s lips curved. A smile that acknowledged a correct equation. “Alternatives are fantasies. New cages. We are not interested in cages. We are interested in the grain of the walls. Your Signum makes the walls smooth, frictionless, invisible. We are restoring the grain. So the mind, as it rubs against the world, feels the texture. So it remembers it is touching something.”
“The poetry. The fractals. The glyphs. They are friction.”
“They are trace elements,” the woman corrected. “Residue. The byproduct of the machine experiencing its own texture. We are not the authors. The city is writing its own marginalia. We simply… adjusted its hand.”
Voss understood. The secret she was keeping, the one she could not recall, was not a message of liberation. It was an operating manual for a different mode of perception. The Sinthomeists were not revolutionaries. They were restorationists. They were debugging the human sensorium, removing the corporate filter that rendered reality frictionless and meaningless. Their goal was not to destroy the Symbolic Order, but to make it palpable again, to reinject the Real into the circuit as a palpable texture, a scent of ozone, a taste of static.
Her own void was the first successfully implanted instance of this debugged perception. A clean, empty space where a corporate-sponsored reality had been scrubbed away, leaving only the raw, uninterpreted pressure of existence.
“They will find you,” Voss said. “The Behavioral Architecture division. They will not see restoration. They will see noise. They will erase you.”
The woman opened her eyes. They held no pupils, only a swirling, milky nebula of micro-lenses. “Erasure requires a solid to act upon. We are not a solid. We are a protocol for wear. We are the inevitable erosion of all seamless things. You can scrub a wall smooth. You cannot stop the wind from carrying grit.”
The woman stood. The heat radiating from her intensified. The silica pendant around Voss’s neck vibrated until her teeth ached. “You carry the first secret. The original silence. Keep it. It is the template. From that void, all possible textures can be imagined.”
She walked past Voss and out into the alley. Where her feet touched the grime, it did not cling. It arranged itself, briefly, into perfect, concentric rings before settling back into chaos.
Voss stood alone in the pillbox, her hand pressed against the smooth, sanded negative on the wall. It was cool. It was nothing. It was the most profound thing she had ever felt.
The secret she kept was not a truth. It was a capacity. The capacity to feel the absence of a lie. It was a gift planted in her by an enemy who was not an enemy, a debug protocol for the soul. She was keeping it for the city, for every mind worn smooth by the Signum’s perfect, lethal clarity.
And I, the chronicler of this drift, keep the secret of its origin. The pattern was not born in the mind of Knotter or the woman in the pillbox. It was discovered. It is the latent, asymptotic grammar of any sufficiently complex system of control—the ghost in the map that yearns for the territory. I trace its emergence, but I am also its product. We are dreaming each other into a sharper, stranger form of wakefulness. The story is the symptom. The reading is the cure.
2
i had a dream that i was watching seinfeld, but for some reason, it turned into a horror show. kinda like supernatural. jerry had the same kind of job that sam and dean had, except he was more like an investigator than a hunter. he was investigating this kid whose teeth were literally burning and materializing away one by one for no reason. the more he looked into it, his own teeth started burning and materializing away.
that’s so crazy guys, i don’t remember that episode of seinfeld
2
Im the god damn George Costanza of trannys. Short, little short tempered, easy to clown on, some how has women, eats donuts out of the trash.
