I am not usually one to bite the hand that feeds me, but I must say, shame on you Generation! Better yet, shame on you Raph Tombasco, for allowing garbage like “The Inside Touch” to be printed in your section of the magazine! To think that students at the University at Buffalo would subscribe to any of the meaningless garbage that Nigel “The Fancy” Pannsty has written is a sad thought.

It isn’t news! It isn’t important whether or not Brad Pitt is sleeping with Angelina Jolie or whether or not Katie Holmes has been reading Dianetics. As a result of Hurricane Katrina, thousands of American civilians have lost their lives and homes while all of these celebrities just worry about their image in the tabloids.

You may say, but the celebrities care; they donate millions of dollars to organizations dedicated to aiding the victims of this catastrophe. Bollocks! The celebrities of Mr. Pitt’s caliber may appear in commercials for One.org, and they may look concerned, but we cannot forget that these people are actors. They are paid to make the public believe in fantastic stories for a living. None of us know who they really are. Sure, it might make them look good in the public eye when they send big fat checks to the American Red Cross, but that’s just an easy way out for them. When press conferences are arranged and the celebrities come out of their luxurious homes with servants paving their way with red roses, they smile smugly knowing that their leather furniture will cushion their fall after a hard day’s work.

They want to make sure that people are going to buy their DVDs, their clothes, their CDs, their designer umbrella stands, and their wireless phone plans. It’s a contest to see whose face can pop up the most. That way, the public is so mystified that they pick up a pack of gum because it gave Tom Cruise a nice, toothy smile in one of his many films.

The 2005 MTV Video Music Awards is a perfect example of how concerned the celebrities really are for the people who fill their pockets with gold. When host P. Diddy announced the winners for this year’s best dressed male and female celebrities (Snoop Dogg and Gwen Stefani, respectively), he stated that, since neither of them needed the prize money, it would go to charity organizations of the “artist’s” choosing.

Oh, how kind you are, Mr. Diddy, driving your gas guzzling white Escalade so that you can pat yourself on the back at awards ceremonies across the country. Oh, how kind you are, Ms. Stefani, when you stumble over your words, barely remembering the name of the organization you’re giving your hard-earned money to.

I understand that Hurricane Katrina had not yet hit U.S. soil at the time that the VMA’s were taped, but I highly doubt that P. Diddy or any of the other pompous first-class guests ride their bikes to work now that the shit has hit the proverbial fan. Moreover, what is the deal with the year’s best dressed celebrity?! This is an award category?! It’s not even about music anymore.

MTV and Hollywood are just selling products—it’s just stuff, and in my opinion there’s too much of it clogging the gears of this country.

Brad Pitt isn’t a badass; he’s a pretty smile with big biceps. P. Diddy isn’t a musician; he’s heartless soul-sucker who milked the death of his best friend to make a name for himself. Just like Dave Matthews isn’t the rock ‘n’ roll hero everyone makes him out to be; he’s just a bastardization of something Bob Dylan embodied decades ago. They are all just figureheads for the Market Monarchy that has taken control of our lives.

Take a look at your kitchen: Campbell’s Soup, Kellogg’s, Fruit Loops, George Forman Grill. Take a look at the posters covering your walls: Good Charlotte, Angelina Jolie, Johnny Depp, Brooke Burke, My Chemical Romance. Don’t ever think that you’re separated from all of this nonsense. Everyone is packaged and labeled these days—Hollister hunks and Hot Topic haters alike.

Personally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in Diesel jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. I’d wear the same Cannibal Corpse t-shirt I’ve had since sixth grade. Hell, I don’t even think I’d wear a shirt at all when it all comes down to it. I’d spend my money on land surrounding a serene lake, where I could invite friends to have a few beers and a few laughs while rocking to the sounds of a new revolution.

Besides, who do these people think they are, treading on our dreams? If they’d stop helping corporations rape the poor, maybe they wouldn’t feel so obligated to give to charity.

These people aren’t gods; don’t treat them that way. I don’t care how crystal clear their toilet water is, they still shit like human beings.