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.

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.