Why, it’s the Wine Rack, a bra stuffed with inflatable polyurethane cups to be filled with the liquor of one’s choice. To paraphrase the immortal Fergie, I’m going to get, get, get you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump(s). And I now have a spigot on my chest designed specifically for that purpose.

To be sure, there are a few drawbacks to the booze bra. First, it’s one of those horrifying, matronly jogging bra contraptions, which really cuts down on the aesthetic appeal. Second, IT’S A BRA FILLED WITH LIQUOR, for God’s sake. Forgetting, for the moment, any feminist concerns about artificially inflating one’s breast size, this just seems tremendously impractical.

If you trip and bump into a bookcase, you’ll be left smelling of booze, with deflated tits and a soggy, distended, ugly-assed brassiere. Hot, no?

Although it may be marketed to the ladies, the Booze Bra was almost certainly invented by dudes – specifically, dudes who refer to each other as “bro” a lot, wear Axe body spray to attract the chicks, and have long-standing subscriptions to Maxim. It seems, fundamentally, like a dating aid for doucheburgers, something guys would use to simultaneously pump up a girl’s chest and break down her judgment.

The smarmy advertising copy on the website really puts the last nail into the coffin. “Just think,” they exclaim, “secretly guzzling from your gazongas means no more waiting in line and paying for overpriced drinks at festivals, gigs and games.” They also note the potential money-saving powers of the bra, noting that “[you won’t] be buying anything for yourself with a chest this impressive.”

Yeah, that’s right, guys: I’m carrying the equivalent of two large glasses of beer on my chest, with all the attendant weight and back strain, FOR ME. It’s all because I am just TOO DARN BROKE to buy my own nachos.

Sadly, due to its popularity on the Interwebs, the Wine Rack is currently all sold out. If you want to try it for yourself, you’ll have to pre-order it and wait nearly a month for delivery. How many of those bras do you think were purchased by girls looking to get drunk off their own lady bits? How many do you think were purchased by guys who hoped that their girlfriends might wear them?

Now: which answer makes you sadder?

Hooters? Depressing? You don’t say. All I’ve ever had to do was take a look at the horrible orange and white paint job adorning the outside of most Hooters restaurants to know those places are a bevy of bad taste and depression.

Oh yeah, and fifteen year olds.

In my town, Hooters was the place adolescent boys with fake IDs and too much cologne spent their Friday nights when no one their own age would date them.

Hooters was the place high school’s biggest assholes went to feel superior to women who would never look at them in real life, as well as the place a friend’s friend once tried to work at but quit after some perv threw a popcorn shrimp at her boobs.

In conclusion: Hooters is drenched in grossness.

On a recent trip to the 56th street Hooters in New York City for their 10 year celebration, the hilarious bloggers at Gawker explained—through quotes and pictures—why this place is never to be visited by healthy, socially content individuals.

After admitting that most of the waitresses “weren’t very good looking”, the team at Gawker interviewed a Hooters Girl named Shanell.

The way her perkiness slips away at the faintest prodding is about as sad as watching a puppy shiver in a rainstorm.

“”How does Shanell like working at Hooters? “it’s fun,” she said. But after a second of consideration, her smile wilted. “It’s all right.” And later in the conversation: “It’s strange.””

Wearing high-waisted short shorts and a tight-shirt while serving fried shrimp to red-faced men in business suits is surely an assigned activity in one of the seven circles of hell.

Not only are you allowing dudes to stare at you like a sex object, you’re asking them to, because hopefully, the more they like your boobs, the bigger your tip will be.

Somewhere in this great United States of America, there are people who will defend Hooters. 89% of those people will be men. Who are overweight. Or wear too much hair gel.

But they will defend it nonetheless; crusading against the sad truth that these restaurants are lame, tacky versions of strip clubs—without the added benefit of nakedness.

Save your soul. Eat your chicken wings somewhere else.

No? Well, someone has.

The Faveo Freedom Bra, invented by “scientist / business woman” Joanne Morgan, is supposedly the next best thing in undergarments, but looks to me like the next best thing in uncomfortable.

After buying a strapless dress and having no bra to wear with it, Morgan decided that instead of returning her purchase, she as going to whip something up herself. “I started to experiment with new ways to invent a bra.”

Morgan is quoted as saying, “I had my Eureka moment after a couple of glasses of wine.”

Her “Eureka moment” seems to consist mostly of a belty-strap thing that squeezes each individual boob and a piece of fabric that goes over the front. How this actually provides support or is even worth buying is beyond me, but maybe that’s just because I’m not a “scientist / business woman”.

Want to see more? Check out the instructional video after the jump!

What do you think? Would you drop $50 on this bra / belt / fabric that squashes your boobies?