The dictionary just went full skibidi — Sorry, grammar snobs, ‘delulu' is legit now

Indian Express

19 hours ago

Language is perhaps the most democratic of our institutions. It expands, adapts and mutates to reflect a generation's lived experiences. This week, the Cambridge Dictionary made it plain when it officially added words born in the chaos of TikTok such as 'skibidi,' 'delulu' and 'tradwife' and dignified them with definitions.
For some, this feels like an assault on 'proper' English, the linguistic equivalent of graffiti on a cathedral wall. For others, it is long-overdue recognition that online culture is not fringe anymore. Either way, these entries are more than passing curiosities. They define power, identity and imagination in the 21st century.
Let's start with 'skibidi.' It originated in Skibidi Toilet, a surreal animated YouTube series in which human heads burst out of toilets to pounding beats. Children and teens picked up the word, using it as an all-purpose exclamation or sometimes as pure nonsense. Cambridge defines it as a term that can mean 'cool,' 'bad' or nothing at all: 'What the skibidi are you doing?' On one level, it is just noise. On another, it is proof of how communities invent language to play, bond and mark generational territory.
Dismiss it as brainrot if you like. But Shakespeare himself reveled in playful invention from the absurd mouthful 'honorificabilitudinitatibus' to silly-sounding coinages such as 'swagger' and 'bedazzled.' What once felt like gibberish is now standard English.
The stakes are higher with 'tradwife,' shorthand for 'traditional wife.' The word describes women who broadcast their devotion to domesticity online through cooking, cleaning, raising children and submitting to husbands as a lifestyle brand.
Cambridge's definition is neutral: 'a married woman, especially one who posts on social media, who stays at home doing cooking, cleaning, etc. and has children that she takes care of.' But the phenomenon is polarising. Admirers see empowerment through tradition, critics see patriarchy wrapped in soft pastels. Unlike 'skibidi,' which is playful, 'tradwife' encodes ideology. Its acceptance into the dictionary underscores how online subcultures now shape mainstream debates about gender and power.
However, we must bear in mind that dictionaries do not endorse words, they record it. But by recognising it, they acknowledge how deeply such cultural scripts have penetrated public discourse.
Then there's 'delulu,' short for delusional. It began in K-pop fandoms more than a decade ago as a taunt for fans who imagined marrying their idols. On TikTok, it been reborn as philosophy: 'delulu is the solulu,' which means 'believing in your own delusion is the solution.'
It is both satire and self-help. It mocks those who have lost touch with reality, but also reclaims fantasy as a tool for resilience. In a world of curated feeds and political misinformation, 'delulu' resonates far beyond fandoms. If you think 'delulu' is just a fan joke, think again. Australia's prime minister Anthony Albanese recently stood in parliament and accused the opposition Coalition of being 'delulu with no solulu.'
On the surface, it was a jab, 'delusional with no solution,' about their economic and energy plans. But it also showed how thoroughly internet slang has seeped into politics. Albanese later admitted he had been dared to sneak the phrase into Question Time, but the fact it landed at all says something.
Some saw it as cringe, the political equivalent of American actor Steve Buscemi's 'How do you do, fellow kids?' Others saw it as proof that if you want younger voters, you have to at least speak their language. Whether you laugh or wince, it is clear that slang once confined to fandoms and group chats is now shaping the language of national debate in English-speaking nations. 'Delulu,' once a K-pop in-joke, is now a campaign tool.
It is a word that captures both the absurdity and the survival instincts of our post-truth age, where belief often counts for more than fact.
Other additions reflect different shifts. Take, 'broligarchy,' a jab at wealthy men dominating tech or 'mouse jiggler,' the pandemic-era device for faking productivity, or 'work spouse,' shorthand for office partnerships that feel marital in everything but name. These words may lack TikTok's viral chaos, but together they chart a map of contemporary life, which included remote work, tech monopolies, hybrid intimacy.
This is why dictionaries matter. They record the evolution of how people understand themselves. Each new entry is a snapshot of what we fear, desire, mock or valorise.
Critics say enshrining slang cheapens English. But that misreads what dictionaries do. They are not guardians of 'proper' speech. They are mirrors. Colin McIntosh, who manages Cambridge's lexical programme, stressed that words only make the cut if they show durability. That's the point: 'skibidi,' 'tradwife' and 'delulu' have outlasted their viral moment.
And history suggests today's irritations will be tomorrow's commonplaces. 'Selfie,' 'hangry,' 'blog' were all were once derided as faddish or vulgar. Now they're indispensable. To freeze English at some imagined high point would be to deny it life.
Older generations, however, should not despair. Every era has its slang, and every generation thinks the next one is ruining language. What is different today is the speed. TikTok accelerates coinages from in-joke to global lexicon in weeks. The dictionary's job is to separate fleeting noise from lasting change.
Whether you roll your eyes at 'skibidi,' bristle at 'tradwife' or laugh at 'delulu,' these words matter because millions of people use them. That is what makes them real. And if language is the collective diary of humanity, then our latest entries make it a little stranger, sharper and more revealing.
Because at the end of the day, what the skibidi are you going to do about it?