There was a time—believe it or not—when television served some modest purpose beyond rotting the minds of its audience into room-temperature gelatin. There was a time when entertainment required talent. When it at least pretended to nod toward decency.

When people tuned in to watch something—not to be psychologically beaten into submission by the grotesque parade of delusion on TLC, a show called Say Yes to the Dress. I find it hard to believe that people actually sit in their living rooms, turn the television on, and are entertained by such trash.

But here we are. 2025 America. Where some poor, hapless soul in an average suburban living room actually sits—probably with a reheated plate of spaghetti, probably with their children in the room, probably without even the faintest twinge of embarrassment—and watches a grown man in a wedding dress moan on national television because, wait for it… he looks like a man in a dress.

Imagine that.

Imagine surviving the Great Depression, storming the beaches of Normandy, or pioneering across a continent filled with wild animals and wilderness only to have your great-grandchildren sit slack-jawed in front of a glowing screen watching a dude in drag melt down because the dress didn’t sufficiently deceive him into believing his own fantasy.

The clip is real. Tragically real. Hideously real. Watch:

Here stands a man, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and as biologically male as a John Deere tractor, staring at himself in the mirror of some boutique bridal shop—confessing with a trembling lip that the image staring back at him looks a little too much like…well…himself.

“I look like a man in a dress and that’s not what I want,” he whimpers.

You don’t say.

It’s the line of the century. The most accidental confession of truth ever broadcast on cable television. The entire charade of transgender ideology, unraveled in eight words. No philosopher could’ve put it better.

But oh, it gets worse. It always gets worse.

Because standing nearby is the host of this traveling freak show, smiling like some corporate funeral director, ready to embalm reality itself beneath a few layers of silk and chiffon. “It’s very easy to feel discouraged on your first try…” he coos, like a mother soothing a toddler who just realized his cardboard box isn’t actually a spaceship.

Discouraged? Discouraged is stubbing your toe on the coffee table. Discouraged is burning dinner. This isn’t discouragement. This is staring squarely into the abyss of biological truth and deciding to pitch a tent and set up shop anyway.

But wait—don’t lose hope! He assures our beleaguered bride-to-not-be that whether the perfect dress exists or whether they have to create it together (translation: invent a fantasy garment out of pure imagination), it’s out there somewhere.

Of course it is. Because in a world detached from reality, the only thing standing between you and your fairy tale is a credit card and a willing enabler.

And that’s the beating heart of the modern wedding industry now. Not marriage. Not commitment. Not covenant. But fabrication. Tailored self-worship. Customized delusion. This isn’t a search for the perfect dress—it’s a desperate crusade to upholster a lie.

And what an expensive lie it is.

Corporate America loves this garbage. Loves it. Loves it enough to slap their logos across the screen. Loves it enough to sponsor it. Loves it enough to feature it between heartwarming ads for antidepressants and cars with rainbow bumper stickers.

And the audience? Women. Mostly women. Women, of all people—cheering this on like it’s the crowning moment of civilization. Women who once wept at the sacredness of a wedding day now clapping like deranged seals at the sight of a grown man playacting in their most precious space.

Tell me again how this isn’t peak cultural collapse.

Tell me again how a society survives when the average woman no longer even guards the sanctity of her own wedding day against invasion by the absurd.

Tell me again how a civilization built on this foundation doesn’t eventually sink into the quicksand of its own stupidity.

This is what passes for entertainment now.

Not stories of love and sacrifice. Not beauty rooted in reality. Not the power of vows spoken before God and man. No. What captures the modern imagination is a fragile man in a dress, panicking like a toddler at a costume party, whimpering because his fairy tale doesn’t quite fit over the stubborn bones of truth.

“I want that fairy tale ending and I’m scared that I’m not going to get it,” he sobs.

Dude…you already got it.

This is the fairy tale ending.

A kingdom where everyone’s insane. A royal court of sycophants nodding along to your every delusion. A magic mirror reflecting whatever you want to see—until, of course, the commercial break ends and real life comes crashing in like a freight train.

But for now, in living rooms across America, people sit. And they watch. And they clap.

And somewhere, the devil smiles.

Because nothing destroys a nation faster than when truth becomes the punchline, and lies become prime-time television.