Is Your Vajayjay Bouncing Off Your Knees?

Last week I caught the tail end of a very short newscast on the rising popularity of vagina cosmetic surgery. I'm sorry? You did say "cosmetic", right? Right. Not reconstructive or repair or any other word implying a functional procedure. Cosmetic, as in look mo pretty. Oh hells no. Please ladies, do not tell me we are so eager to please our men that we'll let (most likely) another man slice and dice our vajayjays into being more attractive to those who might find themselves face to face with it, on occasion.

Well, I've put a fair amount of research into this and it's true, vaginal cosmetic surgery is on the rise now and has 'skyrocketed' over the past couple years, some licensed surgeon sites claim. Sure, some women need surgery after difficult childbirth or another medical issues, but more and more just want to look great vay down der. Porn star hopefuls often get labia reshaping to conform to industry standards. Um, WTF?

Let me just say that my quest to report on all things diva led me to some hoohah photos I really did not need to see. In fact, my eyes will never be the same and the left one still tears and burns throughout the day. I don't know what these young women have been doing, but suffice it to say it's NOT working for them. No one can rock this look. In fact, the first thing I thought of after throwing up in my mouth a little bit was a striking similarity to organisms you see clinging to glass aquarium walls.

Okay, okay, post the link already, right? Fine. (And you girls turning away in disgust, you know you want to see it, too.) Well, don't say I didn't warn you. And before you fire off your hate mail to me, yes I know some people can't help it. But what do you say about the photo where both the snatch lips and the bunghole are stretched out like silly putty? Well??

In closing, I declare here and now that I will never seek surgical nips and/or tucks of my honey pot, unless I have a nine pound baby and even then my milkshake will literally have to be pouring out of my pants for me to consider it. Good Lord. Not for the squeamish.

Friday Night Cocktail Mix

Thank god it's time for another Friday night at the Swizzle Stick. In fact, all my vajayjay research this week makes me want to think of nothing but swizzle sticks. SNAP. Well, tonight's libation needs to be the strong, silent type. Here's what's on special:

Tonight's Featured Cocktail: The Rusty Nail

Serve: Cold in an old fashioned glass
Smash Factor: Memory Loss
Origin: Scotland, 1950s

Ingredients

• 6/10 Whiskey - Scotch
• 4/10 Drambuie

Build over ice and add a lemon twist. Spin Henry Mancini's "Pink Panther" and see what happens. See you next week at the Swizzle Stick, and subscribe. Do you think I do this for fun?

I Want a Black Chick's Onion

No matter what I do at the gym, I cannot upgrade my ass from its current hatchback model. That's how I see it. It's got that slope to it like a mid 1980s hatchback. I'm sick of lunging till my thighs feel like blazing infernos under my skin. My glutes still quiver an hour later and the weird shifts I make in my desk chair to pressure them into stillness is giving a few coworkers concern, I think.

I guess I just don't have the genes for a bubblicious onion. I really admire black girl ass. Can I get a woot woot? Come on, you know you're envious. There's nothing sexier than a curvy butt, big mambas have nothing on it. Big racks are everywhere. They are so 1990s and more girls buy them everyday. But how often do you see a righteous backdoor?

A nice booty cradled in jeans is delicious. It adds instant sensuality to any look. You could wear flooded cords, Wallabees and a yellow sweatshirt. If you're pulling a loaded caboose, you can easily rock that outfit.

Well, before my hatchback and I go sulk for a while, let me clarify I'm not yearning for a badonkadonk. Too much of a good thing is never wise. I'm just saying, black girls, don't take your onions for granted. You're the envy of hatchbacks everywhere, including this one.

Extra Diva Details: Continue your onion envy by listening to these ass tribute songs. I think Sir Mix-a-lot summed it up nicely. Try shaking your flat bump to that song. No, seriously, try it:

Friday Night Cocktail Mix

Happy Friday night! I'm ready to wash down a week of sins with another classic cocktail here at The Swizzle Stick lounge. Tonight, we're keeping it all in the family with an alcoholic tribute to a classic film saga.

Tonight's Featured Cocktail: The Godfather

Serve: Cold in an old fashioned glass
Smash Factor: Memory Loss
Origin: USA, 1969

Ingredients

• 7/10 Whiskey
• 3/10 Amaretto

Build over ice. After one of these you might be speaking to others in ways that you shouldn't. See you next Friday at the Swizzle Stick. Subscribe already.

Where I Declare War on Center Walkers

It often seems I am walking upstream on the sidewalk in my neighborhood shopping areas, dodging people left and right and saying 'sorry' or 'excuse me' when one of their bony elbows jabs me. Listen to me now: there are two kinds of people in this world, those who walk down the center and the others who move out of their way.

I am a mover. After 30 years of darting left and right, sometimes at great peril to my hot chocolate or coffee, it all ends tomorrow morning. In a few hours, I greet the new dawn as a center walker. I have a few failed attempts behind me, but thanks to a plastic tonight who forced me to walk clear around her, her puffy dog and the newspaper dispenser, I mean it this time.

It seems nasty stuff collects around the bottoms of newspaper machines, stuff like dog shit. And when you're wearing really cute Sailor Jerry Converse high tops with all those little hollow diamonds in the sole, you better just sit down with a toothbrush and get to work. Fuck you, Plastic. My whole closet smells like poop now, even after tooth brushing my sole all through American Idol.

It's on, center walkers. Tomorrow, I walk the line. I'm not moving to either side and I advise you to face down your own center walkers before you're rerouted into a pile of shit. I can't wait to walk down the street tomorrow like I own it, like a DIVA. I better get some sleep for the big day. Time to brush my teeth.

Why not subscribe? I stepped in poop, dammit.

Five Men Who Pinch Themselves

Do you ever wonder how ijits get so lucky? It happens under so many circumstances: the donkey playing rags sucks you out with trips on the river on Full Tilt Poker; the drunk driver creams a car, kills the victims and walks away with a broken toe into the loving arms of rehab; the welfare baby mama wins the state lottery; the boring dork gets his own talk show. Grrr.

That last one yanks my chain. I really want my own talk show. Since it always makes me feel better to take cheap shots at people anonymously online, here are five men who must surely pinch themselves each day in total disbelief at their luck. The winners in descending order of obnoxiousity:

1. Ryan Seacrest: Can you say overexposed? Say it with me: Over-effin-exposed! If this little boy and his funny pubescent hair show up on one more shitty reality show, I'm going to.....do nothing. Because the lamer among us think he's fantastic. He produces reality shows for skanks the Kardashians and Denise Richards, hosts American Idol and owns about 10 restaurants. He must be laughing his ass off.
2. Carson Daly: He looks like a monkey and he's not funny. Enough said. Jennifer Love, what were you thinking?
3. Howie Mandel: Where to start? He's a constant irritation on Deal. Repeating yourself and stating the obvious shouldn't earn you a salary to live large on. When I'm enjoying myself watching people piss away thousands of dollars, I don't want him cutting in with, "You're about to make a very big decision" three times before the commercial. And you are so not rocking the soul patch, Howie.
4. Furnell Chapman: This NBC anchorman has the worst comb-over known to man. If a woman news anchor has split ends she's fired. Actually, Grandpa Furnell's hair is more of a comb-around and up rather than a comb-over. Just shave the filth off.
5. Wolf Blitzer: CNN's anchor robot. Take speech lessons or someone load a jalapeno into his ass. Anderson Cooper could wiggle in there and do it. Please.

None of these people would be employed in my cosmos (except Anderson, he's a cute little moy!). They would have to clean litter boxes for food. Oh, try this for your cat boxes. It's the best! What do you think of my list?

By the way, subscribe to my RSS or don't come back.

Friday Night Cocktail Mix

I was born a couple decades too late, or at least pieces of me were. I like to get my party on 1950s style. Classic lounge is where it's at, cat. You can keep your crazy ass techno aneurysm music and seizure lights. Give me a dimly lit, smokey lounge or a supper club with a band and teeny lamps on every cloth covered table any day. Two things come to mind when you say lounge: martinis and velvet, everywhere. A curvy gal in a mermaid dress singing in front of a sax and men that knew exactly how to be men is my kind of night out.

In tribute to the classy days gone by, every Friday is cocktails at the Swizzle Stick here at Diva Cosmos. Try a recipe for a classic cocktail until I run through all 774 of them, and perhaps a chillaxing tune to accompany it. Do you and your friends a favor. Turn off G-Unit and host a cocktail party. Your eyes will be opened and so may something else. Classic cocktail parties are great aphrodisiacs.

Tonight's Featured Cocktail: The Bullshot

Serve: Cold in a highball glass

Smash Factor: Low

Origin: USA, 1920s

Ingredients

• 3/10 Vodka
• Powder Celery Salt
• Powder Pepper
• 2 Drops Tobasco
• 2 Drops Worcester Sauce
• 1/10 Lemon Juice
• 6/10 Consomme

Shake all ingredients and serve over ice. If you're not shaking one of your partner's body parts after one of these, you need a defibrillator. See you next week at the Swizzle Stick, unless you're an alcoholic or you haven't subscribed yet. In that case, don't come back.