In this modern world, fashion has gone from being a lumbering brontosaurus of epic, sweeping societal influence (think go-go boots and tie dye in the sixties) to a lethal, lightning-swift velociraptor of weirdness, reaching different groups and individuals, and then sweeping the world in a lethal whirlwind of Internet-powered, semi-serious, meta-ironic, trans-cultural awful. And just like a velociraptor, frequently you will have only enough time to whisper “clever girl” before it gnaws your face off.

This is exactly what happened with those terrible, terrible elastic bands.

When I first saw them, bright flickers of color at the wrists of people, most of whom I had already written off as wastes of skin, I disregarded them. Yellow, I thought, was a harmless color, and Mr. Armstrong has demonstrated his coolness often enough to make it worthwhile for certain people to wear his insignia.

“Livestrong” – a good sentiment. Cheaper than a t-shirt, and easier to maintain, I thought: “Not bad.”

Then the pink ones came for breast cancer. Oh well. “Breast cancer is terrible,” I thought, “no one can really disagree with that.” For that matter, any kind of cancer is pretty awful. I still settle for donating money directly to charity rather than buying a 10-cent band for $3, when most of the money will just go to the manufacturer anyway, but other people are dumb. They can do what they want.

Then came the blue. And then the orange, black, and green. And I’m not going to take it anymore!

These awful little wristbands have come to represent all that is diseased in our culture. People buy the wristbands, thinking that the money goes to charity and that they are being good people by doing so. (In reality, a fraction, if any, of the money really goes to any charitable organization, although the “Livestrong” campaign remains the most honest.) Then people wear the bands around all day, fitting in with the crowd, announcing their good actions in the most ridiculous ostentatious way to fit-in with their good friends. It’s America, ladies and gentleman, little rubber fragments of America.

These wristbands have become a huge industry. Putting aside the wholly ironic ones (like Archie MacPhee’s line of “Deadly Sin” wristbands, which I once considered investing in until I realized it would make me a failure), there seem to be literally thousands of wristbands with some kind of friendly, perky intent, all of which annoy the living daylights out of me.

And there are more every day. Consider this: according to Personalizedcause.com, an online retailer for these little rubbery abominations, the orange bands stand for Feral Cat Awareness, Motorcycle Safety, Racial Tolerance, Self-Injury, and Hunger. Green ribbons stand for Eye Injury Prevention, Kidney Disease, Stem Cell Research, and Tourette’s Syndrome. For God’s sake, you can get special ones for your favorite sports teams.

What is wrong with our country?

Here’s what you should do. If you really care about something, donate some goddamn money. Don’t buy the bracelet. The bracelet actually makes you a bad person.

Contact one of countless acceptable and safe charities, over the Internet or in person, and give them your money yourself. Then, if you absolutely have to, you can brag about it. In fact, go right ahead. Brag. You’ll feel better and maybe make your friends sprout a conscience as well. Do it!

But don’t wear the bracelets. They’re another corporate attempt to cash-in on the genuine sentiments of real people, and when you wear one, you’re branding “Corporate Whore” right across your wrist. Please, in the name of honest givers everywhere, don’t wear the bracelets.