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Casey the party monster

Party at Casey’s!

Casey Anthony sa-shayed into the courtroom yesterday tarted up like a Florida sorority girl looking for a quick-and-dirty hookup.

On what she clearly believed was Freedom Day — hide the barstools! — Casey entered the fluorescent-lit runway looking nightclub-sexy in a lavender sweater dress designed to show off her generous curves.

And boy, did it ever.

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“Oh, my gosh. There she is. She looks beautiful!” Casey’s ditzy mom, Cindy, enthused inappropriately as her little gal strolled by to her sentencing.

What else, dear Cindy Anthony, could Casey have done in the clink but work on her hard bod, planning its someday grand re-emergence onto the party scene?

And after weeks of donning matronly, shapeless, button-down schmattas while play-acting the role of grieving mother, we finally got a peek at the real deal.

Before our eyes, she once again became the self-absorbed girl who competed in “hot body” contests, rubbing her parts against random boys and girls in bars after her little daughter, Caylee, went missing.

The party girl is back, bitches!

Casey’s lips, for so long devoid of makeup, or even a smile, looked markedly different. Her merry maw was painted with sultry pink gloss.

What a relief. Call the drunk boat! Casey is ready to get wasted in the Florida Keys, and will kiss the captain to prove it.

Not long ago, Casey complained to a fellow inmate in letters written from jail that, behind bars, she’d suffered the indignity of being denied manicures, pedicures, or even the basic comfort of a working hair dryer.

So yesterday, she put on a hair show. Casey’s dowdy ponytail disappeared. Her long, brown locks flowed loosely down her shoulders.

She looked hot, in a hooker-behind-bars kind of way. And she knew it.

For the crown of her head, she apparently mooched a comb with which she teased a ball the approximate shape of a medium-sized rodent — her attempt at achieving a jailhouse version of Florida major hair.

Casey waltzed past her fawning mom and her dad, George, the guy whom the defense painted as the real villain in Caylee’s death because, they claimed insanely, he’d molested Casey since age 8.

Better lock the doors and bar the windows, Mom and Dad. Casey’s coming home!

For the last time — we think — Casey sat at the defendant’s table, and proceeded to stroke her silky hair lasciviously.

She pushed it out of her eyes, over and over. She petted the bottom as if it were a small dog.

With joy in her eyes and not a hint of sadness in her body, she listened intently, ready to spring from the courthouse to the closest saloon.

She continually fidgeted with her sweater, pulling it down and pulling at the sleeves. She was a girl in a hurry.

She’ll have to wait a little longer.

Casey’s joy was crushed after Judge Belvin Perry sentenced her to four years in prison — although she’ll be sprung a week from Sunday after getting credit for time served. Darn the luck! Her next tattoo will have to wait 10 days.

Defense attorneys, who’d already gotten her off with barely a slap on the wrist, wanted Casey sprung immediately, with only time served as punishment for the greatest miscarriage of justice ever to hit the East Coast. She’d just been cleared of murder, manslaughter and, heck, even speaking harshly to the poor, dead girl.

But the no-nonsense judge gave her four years for deliberately lying and misleading authorities about the whereabouts of a child who, Casey knew damn well, was already dead.

So, she’ll have to cool her heels now in the jail’s protective-custody wing. She has an hour a day to take a shower. She can go to the exercise yard — alone.

It’s a far cry from the raucous party scene she prefers. She can do pushups. Or . . . read a book? No, she’ll do pushups.

When the realization struck Casey that she was not walking free yesterday, it was as if an ax had fallen on her head.

Before our eyes, Casey’s smile dissolved. Her face reverted to the familiar, vacant glower she’d worn for most of her trial.

It was clear that if she cares for anyone on earth unconditionally, it’s not her daughter, her parents, her dog or even her lover-of-the-moment. There is not a hint of grief, sadness, or compassion for another living soul.

For Casey is the very definition of a walking sociopath. Casey Anthony cares only for herself.

As she rose to leave the courtroom, the girl who knows no empathy and even less shame did something that astonished even me. She reached into her pocket quickly.

And she retrieved a tiny tube of lipstick. Then, as if she thought no one was watching, she proceeded to dab it quickly on her well-worn lips.

Casey Anthony is in a hurry. She has to get back to the party that was interrupted by the inconvenient life and death of a precious little girl.

For this monster mother who possibly got away with murder, hell will have to wait.

andrea.peyser@nypost.com