*(Jerry Seinfeld walks out to applause, adjusts the mic, and leans in with his familiar observational cadence.)*

Alright, how are you? Good to see you. You know, we all have problems. Your Wi-Fi’s slow, your avocado’s a little too hard… first-world stuff.

But have you ever really stopped to think about the problems of a *supervillain*? I was thinking about this. There’s this guy, from my… less mature television viewing days… The Shredder. From the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Remember this guy? He’s the main villain. Very serious. Very angry. And his whole thing is he’s covered in… blades. That’s his look. The outfit is just… sharp metal. Everywhere.

What is the meeting with his tailor like? He goes in for a fitting.
“Alright, Mr. Shredder, let’s see… we’re gonna take in the shoulders… AHHH! MY HANDS! I’M BLEEDING! YOU’RE COVERED IN KNIVES!”
“Yes. That is the point.”
“The point is I can’t hem your pants without requiring a tetanus shot!”

And the dry cleaning. Forget it.
“Okay, sir, that’ll be one ticket for the suit, and… sir? Sir, the machine… it’s making a sound… it sounds like it’s screaming…”

He can’t do anything! You ever see him try to scratch an itch? It’s a disaster. He’s got to call in one of his henchmen.
“You there. My nose. The left side. Gently. No, not with the club! Use your finger! AHH, YOU’VE IMPALED MY NOSTRIL!”

This is a man who has never experienced the simple joy of a hug. Can you imagine? His daughter comes home from school, “Daddy!” … “NO! NOT DADDY! POINTY DADDY! GO TO YOUR ROOM AND BANDAGE THAT!”

His entire life is a series of minor inconveniences we never think about. Getting into a car.
*Mimes trying to squeeze into a sedan.*
“Your seatbelt, sir?” “I AM THE SEATBELT.”

And the motivation! What does he even want? He runs a criminal organization, the Foot Clan. The Foot Clan. Not exactly a fearsome name. The Foot. Sounds like a podiatrist’s convention.
“We are the Foot! We shall step on you! We are notorious for our athlete’s foot! Fear our orthotics!”

And he’s obsessed with these turtles. That’s his whole deal. “I must destroy the Turtles!” Sir, you are a grown man in a blender costume. They are teenagers. Who are turtles. And they live in the sewer. You’ve already won! Just… let them be. They’re eating pizza off the floor. You’re fine.

He’s always so angry. But you’d be angry too if your battle plan kept getting foiled by a talking rat. That’s his arch-nemesis. A rat. A wise, sensei rat, but still. You’re the head of a global criminal empire, and your biggest setback is a rodent who lives in a drainpipe.

“My schemes are ruined! By vermin! …Actually, that tracks.”

And the name. “Shredder.” Not exactly inspiring terror. Sounds like a guy who works at a Office Depot.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a Shredder.”
“Oh, important documents?”
“No. Justice. And also any hope of fitting into a standard elevator.”

It’s a tough way to live. All that anger, all those blades. Deep down, I think he’s just lonely. He just wants someone to get close. But nobody can. Because he’s covered in razors.

He’s his own fortress of solitude. And his own greatest enemy. And probably a nightmare at a movie theater.

*(Shrugs)*
But that’s just me.

Thank you, you’ve been great! Good night!

*(The lights come up on Bill Burr, pacing the stage like a caged animal, sipping water. He places the bottle down on the stool.)*

Alright, how we doin'? Good? Yeah, you look good. I look like a peeled potato someone left on the radiator. But that's not your problem.

So, my wife, right? She's got this friend. And this friend is married to... a *project*. A real piece of work. This guy. This guy is the reason they had to invent a new type of unemployment. He doesn't have a job. He "manages his online brand."

*(Scratches head, incredulous)*

His "online brand." For what? Selling dick pills? No. Day trading crypto? Worse. This fat bastard... he's Shredder. From the Ninja Turtles.

*(Pauses for the laugh)*

I'm not kidding you. I went over there for some ******** barbecue, right? "Come over, the kids miss you." The kids are terrified of me. So I'm there, and this guy, Kevin, is not eating a burger. He's in the corner, on his laptop, *typing* with this intense look on his face. Like he's defusing a bomb. He's got the focus of a heart surgeon.

I go, "Kevin, what the hell are you doing, man? The hot dogs are gettin' cold."

And without lookin' up, he goes... in this low, gravelly voice... *"I am overseeing the Foot Clan's operations in the tri-state area. The Turtles will not disrupt our plans again."*

*(Stares blankly at the audience)*

I just stood there. I looked at this 42-year-old man with a gravy stain on his t-shirt, talking about the "tri-state area" like he's not referring to New Jersey, New York, and... ****in' Connecticut. What's he gonna do, attack New Haven? Steal all the pizza? Good luck, you fat ****, they've been trying for decades.

So I go, "Kevin. You're a mortgage broker from Scarsdale. Your 'Foot Clan' is three guys you met on a message board who are also afraid of their wives."

He gets *pissed*. Slams the laptop shut. "You know nothing of the Way of the Oroku Saki! My cyber-shurikens are feared across a thousand sub-reddits!"

*(Loses it, pacing faster)*

**CYBER-SHURIKENS!** Are you **KIDDING** me?! A shuriken is a metal thing that *cuts people*! A "cyber-shuriken" is you typing an angry comment and then hitting 'send'! "I shall defeat you with my *strongly worded rebuttal!*"

What does he do all day? I looked it up. He's on forums. Arguing. Arguing about the *lore*. He's in these heated debates with other grown-ass men about the tensile strength of Krang's robot body. He's photoshopping his face onto pictures of Shredder and posting them with captions like "**The Technodrome is fully operational. Pray we do not alter the deal further.**"

You're altering the deal on your cable package, Kevin! You're not a super-villain, you're a guy who has to ask his wife if he can spend sixty bucks on a new action figure!

And the gear! This is the best part. He's bought the costume. Of course he has. Two hundred pounds of washed-up ambition stuffed into a cheap vinyl outfit from some weird guy in Thailand. He puts it on and he can't breathe. He's in the basement, wheezing, "**Tonight I dine on turtle soup!**" while his upstairs, his actual, human children are asking their mom why daddy is making those noises again.

The worst part? He's a *gatekeeper* Shredder. You try to talk to him about it, he's like, "Oh, you like the *1990 film* Shredder? Cute. I prefer the nuanced menace of the *Mirage Comics* iteration, you filthy casual."

*(Imitating a nerdy, superior voice)*

"You filthy casual." Says the man whose greatest physical feat this decade was getting the lid off a new jar of mayonnaise.

What is his endgame? What is the goal? To be the most respected Shredder guy on the internet? To finally win the argument that the 1987 cartoon had the best portrayal of Baxter Stockman? Congratulations, Kevin! You win! Your prize is dying alone in a basement surrounded by pizza boxes and plastic ninjas! Your epitaph will be "He Had a Surprisingly Detailed Knowledge of Mutagen Canisters."

He's not a villain. He's a sad man LARPing as a character who lives in the sewer. The irony is so thick you could cut it with a... well, you could cut it with a real weapon, not a ****in' cyber-shuriken.

*(Takes a sip of water)*

I almost feel bad for him. Almost. Then I remember he tried to pay me for a six-pack last week with a handful of arcade tokens he called "Foot Clan currency."

You're not Shredder, Kevin. You're a guy who needs to shred his credit cards and get a ****in' job.

Thank you, you've been great! Goodnight!

*(Exits stage, still muttering)*

Foot Clan currency... unbelievable...