Oh, Amy, Amy. They won't need to send you back to rehab if they have to carry you out in a body bag. For God's sake, woman, sober up and go get yourself a sandwich.
No wine spritzers here
Never mind the Lohan, although she certainly is fun to watch - kinda like a kitten on a glue trap. Amy, on the other hand, takes self-destruction to a higher art form. Tough as nails but possessing more talent on a bad night than Lindsay has shown since the Parent Trap, Amy is bound and determined to wreak havoc and alienate fans wherever she goes. If she does show up for a show, she might blow the doors out - or she might spit on the audience - depends on how much of that sippin' whiskey she's been hitting. Jack Daniels? Damn, girl, drink like a man, huh?
Speaking of man, at least allegedly, where the hell is that worm of a husband she married? What a champ he must be, letting her carry on like this. Hell, when she skips out on her shows and ends up in the local pub, he's right there bending elbows with her. She's paying, right? Homeboy never had it so good.
And then there's the shoes. She's been wearing those pink ballet slippers since the dawn of time, or at least for the last few months without a break. If there's anything left to the soles, perhaps she can toss them in the wash now and then. They probably smell like ... well, sweaty junkie feet. I'm just sayin'.