There comes a point in every civilization’s decline when you realize that the barbarians aren’t just at the gates—they’re inside, using the curtains for capes and demanding to speak to the manager of Rome.
And so it was that Brian Glenn, the intrepid boyfriend of Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene, found himself standing in the Oval Office, his journalistic credentials amounting to little more than the fact that he once figured out how to use a microphone without eating it.
He was there not to report on matters of state, nor to grapple with the weighty issues of war and democracy. No, he was there to do something far more urgent: to ask Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky why he wasn’t wearing a suit. Because in a world of collapsing institutions, global conflict, and mass existential dread, what really keeps Brian Glenn up at night is the lack of a properly Windsor-knotted tie.
This was, of course, an odd concern coming from a man whose usual beat consists of filming his girlfriend screaming into the abyss about the deep-state menace of oat milk. But Glenn, ever the vigilant defender of propriety, was undeterred. “Do you own a suit?” he asked Zelensky, a man currently fighting a war against a nuclear-armed despot, as if he’d just caught him committing the most grievous of offenses—wearing white after Labor Day.
You almost have to admire the purity of it. Most people, when faced with a war hero, might think to ask about strategy, morale, or, I don’t know, how it feels to lead a nation that’s been turned into a real-life Call of Duty map. But Brian Glenn? Brian Glenn sees a man fighting for his country’s survival and thinks, Where is this guy’s pocket square?
The response, to Zelensky’s credit, was perfect. He didn’t say, “Because I’m busy trying to keep my country from being obliterated.” He didn’t even say, “Because the last time I checked, tuxedos don’t stop bullets.” Instead, he went with a more elegant retort: “I will wear a suit after this war is over. Maybe something like yours. Maybe better.”
Which, let’s be honest, is a kind way of saying, I’d rather be shelled than take fashion advice from a man who looks like he wandered into the Capitol after mistaking it for a Bass Pro Shop.
But of course, no act of mild criticism—however justified—could go unpunished in the House of MAGA, and so, like a vulture sensing a fresh carcass of stupidity, Marjorie Taylor Greene swooped in to defend her beloved. “So proud of Brian for pointing out that Zelensky has so much disrespect for America that he can’t even wear a suit in the Oval Office when he comes to beg for money from our President!!”
It is, to be sure, a curious interpretation of events. One might even say deranged. But that is the joy of our era: the sheer audacity of nonsense, the ability to take a moment of unfiltered absurdity and somehow make it even dumber.
To recap: A war-torn leader visits a superpower to secure aid for his people. He is met not with questions about his country’s future or the nature of global security but with a petulant fashion critique. And somehow, this is spun into hisfailing.
One wonders what Greene and Glenn would have made of Winston Churchill, who spent much of World War II wandering around in a bathrobe and mumbling about destiny. Would they have sneered at his lack of proper trousers? Would they have demanded that George Washington not cross the Delaware until he had properly ironed his breeches?
But of course, the point was never really about the suit. It never is. This was about small people grasping for relevance, about the desperate need of those who have accomplished nothing to remind the world that they, too, have opinions. It’s not about policy, or leadership, or even common sense. It’s about the fact that Brian Glenn, in his heart of hearts, truly believes that when history remembers this moment, it will not be as a battle between democracy and autocracy, but as the day he bravely took a stand for lapels.
And perhaps it is fitting, in its own bleak way. We live in an era of performative grievance, where entire political careers are built on the foundation of throwing a tantrum about something—anything—so long as it distracts from the fact that actual governing is well beyond their skill set. We are ruled, not by statesmen or visionaries, but by a collection of carnival barkers who would rather torch democracy than be caught wearing the wrong brand of trucker hat.
It is, to be fair, a tradition with precedent. The Romans, before their fall, became obsessed with gladiatorial games. The French aristocracy, on the eve of revolution, fretted about table settings. And now, in our own twilight, we have Brian Glenn, standing in the halls of power, demanding that a man fighting for his country explain why he doesn’t own a proper blazer.
We deserve what’s coming.
Copyright © 2025 by Paul Henry Smith
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