Collegiate Times

Civilization has been forecast by a great many things. The rise of disco in the 70s, hair-metal in the 80s, and movies about break-dancing in that golden decade that was the 1990s are just a few on a very long list chock full of aggravation and puzzlement.

Well, folks, get ready to add one more item to the list, something so vile, so completely absurd, you may find yourself ill at the very mention of its name. I am, of course, talking about the horrible abomination that is MTV's Celebrity Rap Superstar.

If you haven't heard, the wizards at Viacom cooked up this little concoction as part of the recent wave of "celebreality" shows that have been dominating cable recently. The premise is simple: assemble eight D-list celebrities, give them Z-list rappers as coaches, or "mentors" as they are referred to on the show, and have them battle it out on the stage in an exploitative showcase of the absurd that would make even Gallagher cringe.

After the eliminations of former Atlanta Falcons running back Jamal Anderson, actor Efren Ramirez (also known as Pedro of Napoleon Dynamite fame), and Jason Wahler from Laguna Beach, viewers were left with a much pared down roster of rap favorites that included gossip kingpin Perez Hilton and "Girls Next Door" sexpot Kendra Wilkinson, just to name a few.

As you might have guessed, these people could not rap their way out of a wet paper bag, let alone on stage in front of a live studio audience.

The performances were deplorable even when the celebs were allowed to use existing songs, but soon bordered on the criminal when the contestants were tasked with creating their own "original" rap songs.

After a few weeks of noise pollution and pointless rap battling, the show ended in a grand finale between finalists Kendra Wilkinson and Shar Jackson, with Jackson eventually coming out on top.

So, who cares about all this? It's just worthless reality TV right? Well, yes and no. It is most definitely pointless drivel meant for those with IQs that match their shoe size and certain people with an addiction to an odiferous green plant, but at the same time it is a shining beacon of the cultural destruction that goes on under our noses every day of the week.

Ladies and gentleman, step right up and see the show! Witness the dissolution of the hip-hop culture, live and uncut in the comfort of your own home for just the price of your monthly cable bill.

It is an offer that, quite literally, you cannot refuse, for no matter what you do, the machine will not stop rolling, consuming, destroying.

All we can do is wonder what will come next.

Maybe MC Karl Rove will make resurgence with his rendition of Cypress Hill's classic "Hits from the Bong."

Perhaps Suri Cruise will chime in for a chorus of "Ay Bay Bay." If we're lucky, we might even get to see Stephen Hawking do the robot. Literally.

In any case, all hope is not lost for hip-hop, that most beleaguered of genres, bloated to the point of bursting with corporate perversions and inane imitations.

Contrary to popular belief, it is the public who dictates what sells and what doesn't. Keep this in mind the next time you see a farce like this on the airways. You, too, can combat the destruction of culture by lowest common denominator programming. Your weapons need only be a remote control and smile. The fate of a musical genre can be decided with a simple flick of the wrist.