The steep downward spiral into obscurity leading out of the back door of Universal Studios is pockmarked by the drug-laced craters left by fallen Disney stars.

Like physical stars, the period of luminescence is ended by self-destruction into a dense, circular mass in a field of dust and debris. Such a nebula was left behind by Britney Spears after her meltdown. Crumpled McDonalds bags are visible orbiting her wreckage.

Fresh in the public’s mind is the imprint of Lindsay Lohan. In the space of just a few years, she crashed from lovable movie starlet to a crusty hollow shell, like one left behind by a molting Dungeness Crab.

Let’s not forget Amanda Bynes, who was presumed dead for years after the unfortunate discontinuation of “All That” but later reappeared as some sort of flesh-draped skeleton reanimated by voodoo magic taught only in the depths of Haitian swamps.

Such monstrosities were merely a prelude to the summoning of the latest Horseman of the Twerk-ocalypse from the She’ol found somewhere between the foyer and third sitting room of Satan’s cozy New Hampshire bungalow. I’m talking of course, about the VMAs.

I could throw a thesaurus at the “performance” in some vain attempt to impart unto you what i could interpret from the last trickle of chemical signals my retinas conveyed seconds before they sizzled away like bacon in my very skull. Maybe a thesaurus should replace Miley’s current wardrobe of Saran Wrap. At least it would be opaque.

Shockingly poignant was Miley’s latest three and three-quarter minute underwear romp under the pretense of singing lyrics written by five random people you’ve never heard of. Clearly the metaphorical wrecking ball she was riding was aimed at her father’s achy breaky heart. Seriously, her father had to have watched that, and that is honestly pitiful.

The trend of pop culture icons is quite easy to predict. When a star is pressured to maintain relevancy, achievement is replaced by controversy. Instead of creating new art, they aim for the most offensive spectacle possible. It makes money.

Who is to blame for this destruction of such youth and promise? Is it the agents and producers in hollywood for pressuring these kids to commit these atrocities? Is it the stars themselves for allowing their morals to corrode so readily? Or is it the insatiable appetite of the youth audience for fresh new characters?

Hollywood is a business. Like any business, they must produce what their customers want. If teens keep buying into this kind of drug-fueled hedonism, then the market will see an opportunity to extract profit by subjugating more young victims.

Ultimately, there is nowhere to place the blame except on ourselves. We as consumers buy into this kind of thing. Hollywood knows that if they keep pushing the envelope, there will always be droves of t(w)eenagers, parent’s money in hand, to eat it up. The “Wrecking Ball” has built up so much momentum, that it is unlikely that it will ever stop.