Tara Reid


OK, it's Friday, and we're done being pissed about the horrific chance that gay-hating, women-rights-denying, oil-adoring big-hair candidate Sarah Palin is alive and running for office. At least, we're done for the weekend, that is.

So let's table that headache and take a party breather in more ways than one: A head throb I haven't had in a long time is one from hitting the bottle. As a dude who's been sober for a kazillion years and counting (which here in lightweight T-town means at least more than two), I'm friggin' sick of all of these damn alcohol endorsements.

Yeah, boozing it up is great for those who can handle it, but no need to shove it in our face all the time. Are the Taras and Amys and Lindsays of the world not testament enough? I mean, I can't drive home without seeing an Absolut "Los Angeles"-edition vodka or turn on the boob tube without Diddy popping in to promote his own slurp special. Uh, what's the diff?

Regardless of the H'wood twist, you'll get the same drunk and the same hangover, no matter which one Kanye prefers to chug. Whatever happened to the simple days? Just some no-celeb-attached Finlandia or Grey Goose that I didn't have to see plastered all over this damn city. It's all so guzzling 'n' girly now, not to mention an entirely glutted market that's so no longer high-end. Which, 'course, leaves a celeb-worshipping consumer opening. Wonder which product it'll be next? Linds prays it's leggings.

—Additional sass by Taryn Ryder

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