Throw Your Very Own Obnoxious SATC Party!; A Field Manual

Like the drunken carousing shortly after our last hangover, we never learn. "Sex and the City, Part Duh" is soon to hit theaters and brains are itching everywhere. Even cultural teabagger and all around soft-headed conservo-critic Michael Medved got this phenomenon right, calling the first Sex and the City "Woodstock for entitled princesses."

And just to make sure you're not left shopping at Payless, Hamptons.com has been kind enough to treat us all with recipes for our very own customized cocktails. Emphasis on cock. As in, put the credit card away and get some! If not, by all means fold your arms across your chest, roll your eyes, and look over the guy's shoulder who's talking to you to see if there's someone richer or more socially important for you to be talking to. These drinks not only rock, they classify you. So there you go. You don't even have to think anymore.

The Fashionista: 3/4 oz of celebrity absorption, mixed with 2 oz. of ill-placed priorities make for a heady elixir that combines the smooth taste of perceived importance with an air of exclusionary star-fucking.

The Player: 10ml. of penicillin, 10ml. of tramp stamp concealer. Stir it in with a dim notion that you're a feminist to wash away that icky feeling in the morning.

The Socialite: 1/2 oz. of false self-confidence, 3 oz. of "The Fashionista" mix, a velvet rope, a slave to stand with a wireless headset at your front door manning the velvet rope, combine repeatedly with a discriminatory guest list, et viola! Drink up, important person!

The Bombshell: 1/2 oz. imitation of a bygone era, 1/4 oz. feigned surprise when someone calls out said bygone era, 3 oz. false modesty. Stir with a long spoon. Strain away all dignity. Serve with a maraschino cherry, while fighting the urge to impress your phony A-list friends with your skill at tying the cherry stem with your tongue.

Of course, you could also just be a little more down to earth and not ask every guy you meet what he "does." Nah, what's the point in that? Carrie on, our wayward daughters.