We can't seem to help ourselves. Celebrity is the junk food of the information age, and we gobble it up by the super-sized bucket. Does Britney have custody of her kids? Nope. Is Ashlee preggers? Yup. What's up with Brangelina?

Enter iCarly, a semi-fun and flighty kids' show that feeds the red-carpet obsessions of the tweenybopper set. The Nickelodeon show's TV celebrities play Web-show celebrities who—both in the script and in real life—want yet more celebrity. And, just for good measure, it tells viewers that they can be celebrities, too.

iConfusing
iCarly is a reality-bending series and interactive Web site that tries to dunk young fans headfirst into the iCarly world. The show itself bears a resemblance to Disney's Hannah Montana, in that star Carly Shay (Miranda Cosgrove) is both a budding superstar and a regular girl. But while Hannah is an old-school pop star, Carly's admirers are Web-based watchers who tune in to her wacky Internet show, also called iCarly.

In truth, Carly's just one of the stars of the iCarly Web show. This vivacious little do-gooder shares the stage with best friend Samantha Puckett, a lemon-tongued detention magnet. Freddie, a tech-savvy classmate with a crush on Carly, mans the webcam and endures a steady drip of abuse from Sam.

"Forget it," Sam tells Freddie after the boy suspects (for a second) that Carly might like him, too. "You were unloved before; you're unloved now. Nothing's changed."

If iCarly were a real online show, of course, Sam would demand a change in the title and Freddie would have the grounds for a lucrative harassment lawsuit. As it is, iCarly is a silly and snarky diversion: The girls film turtle races, showcase the artwork of Carly's brother, Spencer, and run a segment called "Who's that weirdo in my neighborhood?" One webisode features a man, being filmed surreptitiously, eating a banana peel.

iRole Models
Off camera, Carly's life is just as random. Her brother and sole guardian, the 26-year-old artist Spencer, clearly cares for his little sis. But he can't keep a goldfish alive for more than a day, much less monitor a teenage girl, so she's pretty much on her own.

"Did I hear you got detention?" he asks Carly, while swimming in a 10-foot-tall coffee cup (one of his sculptures).

"Yes."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Not really."

"Later!" he shouts, diving deep into the cup.

Other onscreen adults exhibit varying degrees of humanity, but all are unfailingly clueless. And the kids watch them as if they were a pen full of clumsy puppies.

iYi-Yi!
iCarly does contain some watered-down morals: Be a good friend, follow your dreams, don't bootleg DVDs. But, as befitting a Nick comedy, it leans toward crazy, not careful.

In one episode, Spencer creates a miniature golf hole in which the object is to hit the groin of a wooden cutout. In another, Spencer gets back at a childhood nemesis (now a police officer) by handcuffing him to a chair and smacking him on the rear with a broom—all while the officer's young son is in the room. "Watch me spank your daddy!" Spencer hollers at the gleeful little boy.

When first confronted by that officer, Sam pulls a Bart Simpson by thrusting her backpack into Freddie's hands and saying, "You can't prove anything!" Worse, some of the iCarly Web shows seems to border on adult cyberbullying. And the kids sometimes play practical jokes on, or swipe things from, one another—albeit mostly with an air of silliness, not malevolence. A semi-recurring character scalps tickets and sells illicit burritos.

Carly sometimes appears in a low-cut dress, and in one episode wears a swimsuit. Characters misuse God's name just about every episode, and they try out a handful of other creative crudities such as "doof butt," "pimple butt," "jerk face" and "wiz pants."

iSermonette
I'd take a dozen "pimple butts" any day if it meant this show's real problems would go away, though. Namely, its willingness to aid and abet already celebrity-obsessed children.

Nearly every episode features folks complimenting the girls on their Web site, claiming to be big fans and doling out special privileges as they do so. Turns out their principal is a fan—convenient when a girl or two might want to wiggle out of a detention. So is the school's resident scalper, who's willing to trade a couple of hot concert tickets for an iCarly shirt.

"You think just because you're on a popular Web show you deserve special treatment?!" glowers crotchety teacher Mr. Howard just before tossing Sam into detention.

"Yeah," answers Sam. And the audience is asked to agree with her, because Mr. Howard is such an embittered old coot and Sam is cute and hip and young and, well, famous.

While writing this story, I ran across a Web site called "I Wanna Be Famous!" It's filled with thousands of folks begging the site's makers to turn them into stars. "I wanna be famous because I want to get OUT of this place," writes one. "I am really motivated to met [sic] the celebrities, show everyone that I am really talents [sic]," says another. A third, from a self-described 11-year-old, reads, "I want to be a singer and actor like Miley Cyrus. People actually say I am a really good singer." A recent Pew Research Center poll found that about 51 percent of youth (ages 18-25) said being famous was one of their Top 2 life goals, well outpacing "community leader," "helping others" or growing their own spirituality.

iCarly does its part to help make those celebrity dreams come true for its young audience. Both the show and Web site campaign heavily for viewers to send in their own funny clips—a launching pad to their own 15 seconds of fame.

We all have a deep yearning for fulfillment, and we try to fill that yearning in a myriad of ways: from the healthy pursuits of work, family relationships and sports to such soulless thirst quenchers as illicit sex and drugs. Celebrity may offer the emptiest calories of all. So it's doubly too bad that iCarly is telling us that fame equals fulfillment, that celebrity equals success.