If Your Only Body of Work Consists of American Pie, Then Maybe It’s Time You Retire

Oh, Tara Reid. Just when I think you’ve gone and turned into a drug-addled, barbiturate-loving housewife to some uber-geek that has a weird infatuation with high school sex movies of the late nineties, or, you know, died of acute alcohol intoxication, you re-emerge like the Cryptkeeper.

Our girl Tara was photographed just last night in St. Barts, France (I need to know who’s paying for this woman’s airfare; is there some kind of Tara Reid Entertainment Coalition that I’m unaware of? Because I totally want to book her for my daughter’s party).  Tara, naturally, was looking worse for the wear like the washed-up alkie that she is like classic Tara Reid – glazed, red eyes, smoking, and sitting on some random dude’s lap with bits of flayed nipple and lopsided cleavage hanging out hither and thither.

And here I thought she was gone for awhile. Can’t spring surprises like that on me, guys. This ticker of mine just can’t take Tara Reid like it used to.

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If Your Only Body of Work Consists of American Pie, Then Maybe It’s Time You Retire
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