If there’s one thing Katniss and Peeta needed from their sponsors in the Hunger Games, it wasn’t boring bread. It was a flask filled to the brim with vodka/wine/rum/Everclear (not judging). Now you can have your own Hunger Games+Vodka Vendettas flask. Five lucky winners will receive one flask made by Liquid Courage! And if you’re not a winner, never fear…these flasks are now available for purchase at liquidcourageflasks.com! (Here and here.)

Here’s how to enter:

1. Follow @byLiquidCourage on Twitter.

2. Retweet this tweet and/or this tweet by us!

3. Comment below with your name, email address, and Twitter handle.

You have until Sunday at 11:59 p.m. to enter…the winners will be announced Monday morning!

Let the Giveaway Games begin!

We all have our own food devils. Maybe it’s Ben and Jerry’s “Imagine Whirled Peace.” Maybe it’s movie theater popcorn. Or maybe it’s those S’mores PopTarts your boyfriend keeps in his apartment that he never eats that call your name every morning when he leaves for class that you just. can’t. resist. I’m not saying that’s mine….butimjustsayin.

The point is, dieting is nearly as impossible as getting your eyeliner to stay on your waterline when you don’t know how to avoid the “diet devils.” Heather Bauer, nutritionist, author, mother of three, creator of Nu-Train, New Yorker, runner and just all-around badass, has written Bread is the Devil for just these issues. Maybe you’re a free-style dieter, pretending you can guess and count all those calories in your head when, let’s face it, you struggled through pre-algebra freshman year. Or maybe you’re a OMG-It’s-My-BFF’s-21st-So-I-Can-TOTALLY-Have-This-Queso-Dip-And-Pitcher-Of-Margs dieter. Or perhaps you, like me, suffer from “boredom bingeing,” or what I like to call, “SVU marathon eating.” Whatever your vice, Bread is the Devil has a way to fix the situation, and Heather Bauer herself has some words of wisdom for when your diet devil is that Jäger shot at the bar:

Most diets don’t work because the only way you could possibly follow them is if you lived in a hermetically sealed bubble. That’s not the case in my new book Bread is the Devil. Over the last 12 years I’ve helped thousands successfully lose weight and keep it off. The secret? I understand the connection between behavior and eating. Bread is the Devil gives you an easy-to-follow 3 week plan, as well as strategies for 10 important “diet devils” — the underlying situations that are the real reason we are all 5, 10 or 80 pounds overweight. We all have a few. Whether it be the Dine Out Devil, the Late Night Shuffle, or Boredom Bingeing, my book will give you the ultimate solution. My other claim to fame? Realizing that people have non-negotiables. For many of my clients, it’s drinking (see, you’re not alone!). So sidle up to the bar, because you don’t have to give it up. All you have to do is tweak what you drink and build it in. Good news, vodka is one of my top picks!

For this giveaway, Heather is sending out FIVE of her books, signed, to those who enter! Here’s how:

1. Like Vodka Vendettas on Facebook.

2. Like Heather Bauer on Facebook.

3. Follow Heather Bauer on Twitter.

4. Comment below with your name and email address.

The time table to enter is now until Sunday at 11:59 p.m. Monday we will pick and announce the winner, and email them to request their mailing address. If you win and do not reply to your email within 24 hours, we will select someone else.

Happy entering!

Been there, touched that. We’ve all had a run-in with several different types of guys during our favorite pastime (which is dating and not dating). Out of all the types in the world, however, we have narrowed it down to three main bros that really fuck with our heads. Consider this the brodictionary, and here’s a case-specific guide on why you should run, not walk, when you find yourself booed up with one of these walking red flags.

The non-commiter: This is a guy we all know and love to hate. We’ve drank with him. We’ve fucked him. We’ve even been on a few dates with him. We’ve done these things all the while knowing that this bro can’t commit. Not that you want, like, wedding bells or anything (let’s enjoy our 20s, shall we?), but you would like to pretend for your ego’s sake that this relaysh has SOME kind of potential for future commitment. He likes you (duh, who wouldn’t?), but he sends mixed signals because he’s “busy with work” or “not sure what he wants right now.” As if. It’s not any reflection on you (because obvi you’re totes out of his league anyway), but one of the best things about being betchtastic is knowing that every guy wants to be with you, at all times. And if this one isn’t showing as much eagerness to engage you as you’re used to, it’s frustrating as fuck, while simultaneously intriguing. Why doesn’t he return my texts right away? Should I have worn higher heels? Is my hair too flat? Does he hate my new mascara? It really has nothing to do with any of that, though, because this guy isn’t looking to settle down at all right now. With anyone. Not even with your betchy ass. God damn him.

The clinger: Stage 5 alert. This is your average text-you-seven-times-within-24-hours-even-with-no-response-then-found-your-email-on-Facebook-and-sent-you-four-just-to-see-if-your-phone-was-stolen type of bro. You made the mistake of giving him your number for a class project because you thought he would do all of the work while you winged out your eyeliner, but now he thinks you’re like fucking engaged or some shit. This is one of the most annoying types of bros because. He. Won’t. Leave. You. The. Fuck. Alone. It’s totally great that we both like iced coffee and were born in the same town 20 years ago, but can you please just give me answers 1-45 and we be on our separate ways? This is the type of guy that you have to threaten legal action because clearly your subtle “leave me the fuck alone” texts aren’t doing their job. For further instructions on how to deal with this particular brand of crazy, see: How to avoid the double, triple and just-won’t-fucking-stop texter.

The stuck on the ex: You’re dating (see: hooking up with) this guy for, like, two months and you notice that it’s kind of weird how much he brings up his ex. He likes to talk about how much he “hates” her and how he can’t believe they were ever together. What makes it super weird is that fact that he still has pictures of her in his room, and talks to her mom on FB chat. And that shrine in his closet was a little suspect, too…. Ok, maybe not the last one, but still, there’s wayyyy too much of her still in his life to make you feel at ease. He always finds a way to shit talk her, but you’re beginning to realize this might just be a carefully orchestrated ploy to mask his true, more tender feelings for this other betch that clearly broke his heart. Oh, fuck. Are you the rebound?????? You swore you would never let yourself be “that girl.” You bring up your concerns, which he dismisses adamantly, while still continuing to talk shit about her. What you can’t bring yourself to understand is why he thought she was hot shit in the first place. She clearly never had braces. Her style is ehh at best. And her idea of fun is like rock climbing or churning butter. As good of a time as you two have at date parties and Wednesday Night Drinking Club (WNDC), this bro is toxic and who the fuck wants to play second fiddle to some poorly-dressed, gap-toothed woodswoman? Next.

As stated, there are a plethora of different types of bros out there, you just have to find the ones that are less emotionally-unavailable and crazy than the others (because, let’s face it, they’re all fucking insane).

Good luck, and happy bro hunting, bitches.

#mc

Love us? Hate us? Tell us! — vodkavendettas@gmail.com

I wasn’t going to post these photos on the interwebz. But really, I couldn’t resist showing off my to die for hospital gown, cafeteria lady-inspired hair net, and really rad non-skid socks (my least fave, as I had been planning for weeks to slide down the hospital hallway Tom Cruise Risky Business-style).

If that doesn’t scream do me now, you should check into buying some Viagra. Really, those moons!? How chic!

Oh, you might want to know why I was in such darling attire. Well, I was getting rhinoplasty aka nose reconstruction aka yes, you guessed it, a nose job.

What was wrong with my first nose? I say first nose because they literally took mine off and replaced it with Megan Fox’s. Ok, you caught me, that was a lie. It really wasn’t in too poor of shape, I just wasn’t fond with the side view of it. When you spend most of your time trying to make sure people can’t look at you from the side, you end up with a lot of neck problems, and possible driving issues (try driving while staring at your passenger), plus people think you are creepy.

Also, I’m a trend follower, and what trend today is bigger than plastic surgery? (Ok, ok, other than cheating on your hot wife *coughcough* Arnold *coughcough*. And dressing like Lady Gaga.)

Here’s what I looked like post-surgery: Are you ready?

I don’t think you are, so here is a photo of a kitten with my kind of priorities:

Ok now you’re ready:

Let’s take a vote. The sexiest part of this is:

A) My mustache.

B) My hospital gown — it’s untied in the back, ooh la la!

C) My glasses (hey, they’re Juicy Couture!) resting so nicely on my splint.

D) All of the above, and then some.

Whatever you choose, if this didn’t get you hard, well, you might be gay.

Speaking of gay, I was not lucid when moved from operating table to hospital bed, so someone had to move me (unless I levitated there, highly unlikely) and to be frank, they saw my butt. But hell, I’m not one to be modest, at least not while in a semi-comatic state.

For those of you actually interested in the final product, I will provide updates post-splint removal and post-swelling.

Until then, happy judging!

#kj

This past week, #kj and I got word of a gathering at the local bar for dollar drinks. (And I mean, who—literally, WHO—in their right mind could turn down DOLLAR. DRINKS. C’mon!) Needless to say, we fell prey to peer pressure, so we were off. Ok. Fine. No one “pressured” us, per se, but regardless, we were going.

If anything should have been an indication of how this night was going to go, #kj and I mixing vodka and Four Loko shots should have been it. They were terrible. And I mean, fucking terrible. But they did the trick.

So. We finally make it to the bar—fashionably late and a little tipsy (see: rule no. 3). And not to inflate either of our egos any more than they already are, but let’s face it, we were cute as fuck. Being cute in an Alabama bar in the middle of the summer is like carrying a steak through a lion’s den—you’re going to get pawed at.

We’re used to the stares and the always appreciated, “Wassup, shawties,” and “Can I buy y’all a drink?” But this night was different. I don’t know if it was the fact that we mixed blackout in a can with Aristocrazy. Perhaps it was my floral, frilly rodeo dress or the fact that #kj wore black with “brown.” Hell, it could have easily been the full moon. Whatever it was, it made for a very interesting altercation in the first 20 minutes of our arrival.

I was approached at the back bar by a foreign dude that evidently thought I was either a.) attractive or b.) from his homeland. Either way it didn’t matter because I wasn’t interested. I think I may have said, “Hey,” at best, but I quickly turned and started talking to people I actually knew and, you know, wanted to talk to.

Well, apparently that did not go over so well because I was swiftly followed into the next room where he LITERALLY grabbed my arm and proceeded to tell me how “rude” I was. Dude. Chill out. It’s my prerogative whether I want to speak to you or not, sorry I’m not sorry. Well. Needless to say, some of our friends and other bar-goers did not take too kindly to ol’ boy calling us “rude Americans” and “fucking Alabamians.” Within minutes my dear friend had caused quite the uproar with the entire front bar involved. SMH.

Not to say that you can’t have a fun dollar drinks experience without causing a bar fight—but why the fuck would you want to?

#mc

When you’re oh-so-fabulously flirty such as myself, or #mc, you may come across a predicament. Do you play the tease, or do you play the whore? For in today’s society I have learned that there really is nothing but the two. You let a guy come over, possibly get involved in a makeout sesh that ends where your buttons begin, and you get called a tease. You let it go all the way because face it, women can love sex as much as the next guy (ok, all guys) and you’re a whore. Fair? I think not.

Basically, I’m afraid there’s no way to avoid this I-don’t-want-to-date-you-but-I-still-want-your-body pitfall. You must choose your path. I personally prefer the part of the tease, but, alas, sometimes I just wanna sing I Just Had Sex and be “qualified to sing it” with Akon.

Either way, we won’t judge you and either way, shacking is shacking whether or not you got it on. And we adore post-shacking clothes.

#kj