“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining in holy matrimony of John and Jane. Yes, that really is Jane. No, seriously, it is. Really. I promise. Didn’t you guys watch television?”
Ridiculous as that seems, those words – or at least a slightly more serious version of those words – will be uttered in a few short months all over televisions in, where else, the greatest nation on Earth: America.
“But Joshua!” you ask. “What possible reason could there be for that, let’s face it, stupid scenario to ever occur?”. The answer is as simple as it is horrifying. Channel E! has spawned one of mankind’s most soul-blighting blasphemies against morality: a taint to darken the hearts of everyone that comes across it. A taint called Bridalplasty.
Bridalplasty, if you don’t know, is a reality show in which contestants compete to become the “perfect bride” and win their dream wedding. These deeply troubled women undergo a few months of counselling and rehab, excising their personal demons and become healthier, more contented individuals – oh wait, no they don’t, they whore out their self-respect to “win” plastic surgery.
Every week the brides jump through retarded, vaguely wedding-themed hoops, and the super-special-awesome grand prize for the winner is to have their plastic surgery wish list fulfilled: every nip, tuck, slash, implant, injection, removal and falsification their withered hearts desire, effectively managing to turn this:
Think I’m joking? The first episode had the women enter a tent to find a life-sized picture of themselves waiting for them. If television executives had any kind of soul other than the kind they keep in jar and torture while snorting blow of a 12-year-old’s chest, the challenge would be to come to terms with who they are, and accept that there’s nothing wrong with it. Instead, they assemble a puzzle over the top of the photo which, when completed, shows a photoshopped version of what they COULD look like – should they win the competition. Afterwards, the first ten to complete the “puzzle” race to a table and grab a syringe, which they take to an “Injectables Party” and present to a resident doctor who (presumably while gibbering prayers to Cthulhu) gives them some Botox and sends them on their way.
Then, the twelve harpies vote off the one of them they like the least until there’s one left. That one gets to become the “perfect bride”, a sliced-and-diced sham of a human being. All this surgery will be done without their husband-to-be seeing it until their wedding day, when he lifts the veil and gets to see the living breathing mannequin he’s now marrying. And the cameras are there to watch it all.
If that by itself wasn’t enough, the women themselves are genuinely awful human beings: petty theft, threats of physical harm, secretly selling their own goddamn engagement ring to buy a nicer-looking car, these girls do it all. One of them got to see her fiance for the first time in eight months as he returned from a tour of duty in Iraq: instead of focussing on what a genuinely uplifting moment this was (and trust me, unless one of the contestants goes mad and slaughters everyone attached to the show on their way out, it’ll probably be the last one), one of the other women starts complaining about how unfair it is that she gets to see him.
Now, I’m not going to rant about how this monstrosity of a show mocks the very concept of self-esteem, or about how it perpetuates the drive for all women to fit an unrealistic ideal in the most sickening way possible, or even about how terrifying it is that someone came up with this as an idea. No, what really get’s me about Bridalplasty is this: a lot of people put a fair amount of money behind this show, and they didn’t do it for fun: they did it because they thought people would watch it.
And they were right.
Bridalplasty is still showing in the States, which means it’s getting enough viewership to survive where other shows – shows like Firefly and the Dresden Files – have been cancelled. We, as a society, have decided that it’s perfectly okay to watch these troubled women make a mockery of their own lives: we can officially no longer look down on the Romans. Heck, in a way, we’re worse: at least the gladiatorial matches were honest, if horrible: people got in the ring, fought, and died if they lost. Yes, it was brutal, but it was an appeal to the primal bloodlust within us all: it was violence porn. This is in a whole other league, a special sort of evil that only the West could conjure up.
And what do we, as a society, do about it? Nothing. Instead, every week, people tune in to watch this abomination play out in the flickering lights of their luminescent master, and enjoyed it: talked about it with their friends, found favourites, and generally become absorbed by a show with the same sense of morality as Old Scratch. And don’t think that were safe just from being in Australia: these women will become famous even if their awful, awful show is never shown in any other country. I myself know about The Situation without having seen a single episode of Jersey Shore.
These people are going to be known all over the internet, and the controversy around their show will only fuel it. And yes, I know that I’m doing it too: you don’t need to tell me that. Heck, if it’s popular enough, it’s only a matter of time before Channel 7 greenlights Bridalplasty Australia, and then we’re just as screwed.
I only hope that this show get’s cancelled before it reaches the end of the season, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that if Bridalplasty gets a second season, mankind is doomed.
And I’m not sure if I’d even mind.