mrtl

Flipping the Decline of Rap Upside Down

Snoop Dogg is appearing in strange places, like Pepsi adverts and Big Time Rush videos. This is most definitely a sign of the rap world's apocalypse, which I initially attributed to Ice-T when he started acting, but he's done well as a thespian.

::tangent::
OH MY FUCKING HELL, Ice-T. You, too? I'm so annoyed right now I don't even know what to name my tangent.

Ice-T, your website neglects to consistently use the hyphen in your name. DETAILS!!

Do you know what this means, Ice-T? It means that for me you are now all clumped together with Michael Bublé in the "Don't respect me because I don't care enough to make sure MY OWN NAME is spelled right by the people I hire to represent me" club.  Michael Bublé is in there because his website doesn't bother using the acute accent over the e in Bublé. 

Ice-T, you really don't want to be clumped in any way with Michael Bublé. He's a selfish man whore with some serious cooties. I advise you to have your voo doo woman's long pointy scissors with you at the ready to keep Michael Bublé at a good distance.

Sheesh, what is up with this lack of attentiveness to detail?
::end tangent::

Anyway, with the apocalypse that much closer, it's only a matter of time before rappers -- desperately attempting to cross over and keep sales up -- start tapping into oldies and standards. I'm writing this post today to throw out a few song ideas for rappers. You're welcome.

"That's Amore" by Dean Martin | Free Download
Ice-T and Michael Bublé should do this one since they're clumped together anyway. The song has eye injuries and pie, so it should appeal to each of them. I'll even help out with their group's name: Granville Island Iced Tea ("GI'IT"). 

In Napoli where love is King
When boy meets girl
Here's what they say

When the moon hits your eye
Like a big-a pizza pie
That's amore
When the world seems to shine 
Like you've had too much wine
That's amore

Bells'll ring
Ting-a-ling-a-ling
Ting-a-ling-a-ling
And you'll sing "Vita bella"
Hearts'll play 
Tippi-tippi-tay 
Tippi-tippi-tay
Like a gay tarantella

When the stars make you drool 
Joost-a like pasta fazool
That's amore
When you dance down the street 
With a cloud at your feet, you're in love
When you walk in a dream 
But you know you're not dreamin', signore
'Scusami, but you see 
Back in old Napoli, that's amore

When the moon hits your eye
Like a big-a pizza pie, that's amore
That's amore
When the world seems to shine
Like you've had too much wine, that's amore
That's amore

Bells will ring
Ting-a-ling-a-ling ting-a-ling-a-ling
And you'll sing "Vita bella"
Vita bell-vita bella
Hearts will play
Tippi-tippi-tay, tippi-tippi-tay
Like a gay tarantella
Lucky fella

When the stars make you drool just like pasta fazool
That's amore (that's amore)
When you dance down the street 
With a cloud at your feet, you're in love
When you walk in a dream 
But you know you're not dreaming, signore
'Scusami, but you see 
Back in old Napoli, that's amore

"If I Had You" by Jimmy Durante | Free Download
I don't have an artist in mind for this one, but I did work in some badass phrasing. And seriously, what rapper wouldn't jump at the chance to rap about Dall sheep? 

I could show the world how to smile
I could be glad all of the while
I could change the grey skies to blue
If I had you

I could leave the old days behind
Leave all my pals,
I'd never mind [I don't care about those bitches!]
I could start my life all a new
If I had you

I could climb the snow-capped mountains [like a Dall sheep]
Sail the mighty ocean wide [and never go to sleep]
I could cross the burning desert [I wouldn't even burn my feet!]
If I had you by my side [in my sheets]

I could be a king, dear, uncrowned
Humble or poor, rich or renowned
There is nothing I couldn't do
If I had you

"10 Cents a Dance" by Ruth Etting | Free Download
This one has 50 Cent written all over it. Imagine a day when he has an 80% decline in album sales revenue, landing him in Vegas doing drag shows singing this song, complete with a group dance choreographed for the "fighters and sailers" verse. I can't be the only one who can imagine this, right?

I work at the Palace Ballroom,
but, gee that Palace is cheap;
when I get back to my chilly hall room
I'm much to tired to sleep.

I'm one of those lady teachers,
a beautiful hostess, you know,
the kind the Palace features
for exactly a dime a throw.

Ten cents a dance
that's what they pay me,
gosh, how they weigh me down!
Ten cents a dance
pansies and rough guys
tough guys who tear my gown!

Seven to midnight I hear drums.
Loudly the saxophone blows.
Trumpets are tearing my eardrums.
Customers crush my toes.

Sometimes I think
I've found my hero,
but it's a queer romance.
All that you need is a ticket
Come on, big boy, ten cents a dance.

Fighters and sailors and bowlegged tailors
can pay for their ticket and rent me!
Butchers and barbers and rats from the harbors
are sweethearts my good luck has sent me.

Though I've a chorus of elderly beaux,
stockings are porous with holes at the toes.
I'm here till closing time.
Dance and be merry, it's only a dime.

Sometimes I think
I've found my hero,
but it's a queer romance.
All that you need is a ticket
Come on, big boy, ten cents a dance.

Swan Lake ~ May 2, 2009

 

It's a beautiful park with a path around the lake. Jem is sporting her "bear ears," a hair style that is no longer requested but used to be an everyday fashion. They've grown so much in the last two years.

Tonight Bug is having her first sleepover. They just finished watching Snow Buddies and are playing hide and seek while pretending to be dogs. Have I mentioned I gave up alcohol for Lent? Serious headache from the howling, but at least they're having a blast.

Reality Check: The Meddlers Aren't the Kids

Now that my children are getting older, the sugary sweet cartoons on Noggin (forever Noggin - I won't call it "Nick Jr.") are no longer their go-to's. It's a shame, because I always hoped they'd get into "Yo Gabba Gabba," and I'll admit that I kind of miss "Wow Wow Wubbzy." I am not ashamed to say I miss Moose A. Moose, mostly because the man behind the voice is dreamy.

Sing to me, Paul Christie!

Exploring other channels, the girls now have some new favorites. I'm not very fond of "Power Rangers," although it is cute that Jem has our family's first imaginary friend in Mia. She ate dinner with us the other night, eating a cream cheese burrito. I won't judge you, Mia. "Courage the Cowardly Dog" is one I can handle; I suspect the writers are on drugs, but that may help the kids' creativity. It's really been wonderful to see the girls learn to appreciate the shows I loved so much as a kid. "Tom and Jerry" especially gets me to sit down and watch with them.

Then there's "Scooby Doo," which has turned into a total crap shoot. DirecTV provides a lot of filtering options for managing recordings, but it's not specific enough to select only shows taped prior to 1979 or otherwise without that obnoxious little fucker Scrappy Doo. Where's the "Jump the Shark" filter, DirecTV?? You fail me.

The first ten years of this show were magic. Then the producers had to go and mess with the formula by bringing in Scrappy Doo, whose voice along makes me start to dry heave. Then they had to go and reinvent all the characters' personalities so much that they're not recognizable anymore. Daphne and Velma are ridiculously swoony over Fred and Shaggy. Fred's not respectable at all, more flake than flare. Shaggy and Scooby are the biggest disappointments. At some point Shaggy stopped being such a stoner, being more of an average guy. Scooby has moved much more to the background in focusing on the crushes between the human characters. He's so neglected it's no wonder he hardly eats anymore; in the newer shows I haven't seen nor heard mention of Scooby Snacks. Scooby Dooby Doo, where the fuck are you?

Random Fact Found on Wikipedia: Mindy Cohn currently voices Velma. I loved me some "Facts of Life," but that alone isn't cutting it for turning my ire around.

This is the only item on my Christmas list.

 

If I ever get old and need a third leg, I want a bull penis walking stick. Hell, I want one NOW, and shall name him "THIS" in honor of Pokey. Consider my Christmas list complete!

The site offers custom engraving. With the space this baby offers, I'd want to make maximum use of that. Maybe pay homage to the original owner with a verse, which would have to be a limerick. I'ma get my brain chewing on that.

Here are the specs. All this for $89 with FREE SHIPPING!

• Made in the USA
• Made from the reproductive organ of a bull
• Unique collector's cane
• Sealed with a protective lacquer
• Comes with a foam handle
• Comes installed with a complimentary specialty bull organ rubber tip

I wonder how they "installed" the complimentary specialty bull organ rubber tip. Wait... that's on the floor end. I'd have to put a condom over that, one that glows in the dark so people can see me coming. You'd think people would appreciate knowing when a bull penis is coming at them, wouldn't they?

I'm grateful that they have the foresight to use a protective lacquer. Without it, dogs would be trying to gnaw on the bull penis and I'd be forced to whack them off.

Oh, delightfully naughty bull penis walking stick. I want you SOOOOOO bad!

~~~

UPDATE:

This is a for-real bull penis. Here's the product description:

Genuine bull penis cane. This cane has been used for hundreds of years It represents good stamina and strength. This is a 1 collectors cane that is a must for any cane collector. A taxidermy process is used to sterilize and properly cure the tissue. The organ is stretched over a metal rod to make it sturdy. Brass Tip with rubber tip included.

Take THAT, doubters.

Also, as all can see in my comments, mister mrtl has put it in writing that he will buy me a bull penis walking stick (aka "Genuine Bull Penis Brass Knob Handle Walking Stick With Black Foam Grip"). Our marriage is saved!

Also, as all can see in my comments, the unimagineable has occurred. Bucky Four-Eyes speechless? It's an honor that humbles me.

Also, it's been some time since Jem has used a pronoun to replace a fairly common word that she can't quite put her mouth on. For example, "Mommy, I want a that." Today I had to change my underwear after hearing her complain, "Mommy! Bug just kicked my this!"

ANOTHER UPDATE:

If this bull penis walking stick has been used for a hundred years, as indicated in the description, what's up with the "6 month limited warranty*"? What do they think I'll be doing with THIS? And do they expect me to give it back when I'm finished so that someone else can enjoy it? I can't even find an explanation for the asterisk. I'll be sending a query to the seller and will let you know what they say.

In Which I Implore Papa Johns to Add a Button and Save the Earth

Friday is pizza night in our household. We almost always order from Papa John's since we love their crust. LOVE IT! Mister mrtl and I have been together for nearly seventeen years. We've eaten a lot of pizza.

Papa John's pizza is delivered with a one-ounce plastic container of "Special Garlic Dipping Sauce" and a jalapeño pepper. Every week these get thrown out. It is the dipping sauce that I'm focusing on for this post.

It's rare that anyone in our household even uses the Special Garlic Dipping Sauce, but it's opened and emptied so the container can be recycled. (An exception was our three years in Alaska, which didn't have recycling facilities.) Emptying the container is a pain in the ass because the Special Garlic Dipping Sauce is so oily it adheres to the hands and anything that happens to be in the sink. Tonight I threw the container in the trash, justifying my decision that the water wasted cleaning up the mess may negate the benefits of recycling. I started thinking about how many of those containers we've tossed over the years and how much space in our landfills they would take up if we threw every one of them out to avoid the oily mess.

But mrtl, if the container is recycled, it can be made into something else. Damn it. I'm going to take my sore legs down the stairs yet again (oh the pain, and I should mention that I slipped the last time I went down the stairs, but I'll take that risk to be a good custodian of our planet).

Papa John's recently redesigned their website. My laptop doesn't care for the site much due to the enhanced programming, which kicks the fan into high gear to keep the computer from exploding. I only mention this to emphasize how much we love Papa John's pizza; we risk our lives almost WEEKLY to order. (Yes, we are aware of the smartphone application; there was some issue that I can't recall that kept us from using it. It was probably the double-cutting. I'd risk being blasted by an exploding laptop than finish a piece of pizza that my 5-year-old daughter has molested with her mouth and hands.)

With all of the enhancements of the improved, deadly site, I wish the Papa John's pizza-ordering experience would include the option to not get the Special Garlic Dipping Sauce at all (or the jalapeño for that matter). Back in the old days when people actually had to call to order their pizza, I could tell the team member to leave it out (if I remembered, which I may have once).

Consider some of the benefits of adding this feature:

1. Papa John's' profits will soar. Less sauce will need to be manufactured ("Better Ingredients" only extends to the pizza; the sauce is loaded with ookey stuff) and packaged will help your bottom line!

2. Customers' health will improve. There are many out there who would opt out of getting the sauce if they had the choice, but regardless would not waste it if it's there.

3. Water will be conserved from washing out containers for recycling (and removing the residue from everything that gets in the way).

4. There will be less waste, whether going to landfills or recycling centers.

5. If the same option is applied to the jalapeños, customer humiliation will decrease. I couldn't tell you how many "eat that jalapeño to show us what a man you are" contests I've witnessed.

I'm going to go so far to attempt some statistics to support my request.

::math disclaimer::
Math is not my strong suit. It is very much my weak suit, that weak suit that sits in the waaaaay back of the closet, is out of style and doesn't fit me. The last time I actively exercised decent math skills, shoulder pads were in style. That's how weak my math is.
::end math disclaimer::

Just to keep it simple, I'm going to figure this based on the entire time mister mrtl and I have been together. The crunched numbers will be a bit overblown. However, we have ordered more than one pizza or side at a time, and we have ordered pizza more than once a week, and some of the products include more than one container of this-or-that dipping sauce. Used or not, there is trash made.

Mister mrtl and I met on April 15, 1994. According to a website that does the math for me, that's 883 weeks.

883 containers of dipping sauce

So far, so good, but now we have to figure out how much space the containers take up.

The containers are roughly cylindrical, 2" in diameter x 1" in height. According to eHow.com, these are the steps to determine the volume of a cylinder:

1. Measure the height (h) of the cylinder. Height is sometimes referred to as the length. 1"

2. Measure the radius (r) of the cylinder. Radius is the distance from the outer edge to the center of the circle. 1"

3. Multiply the height by Pi. 1 x 3.14159265 = 3.14159265

4. Square the radius. (Multiply the radius by itself.) 1 x 1 = 1

5. Multiply the product from Step 3 by the product of Step 4. 3.14159265 x 1 = 3.14159265

6. Write you answer in the proper cubic unit of measurement.
::blink, blink... insert confused looks on the faces of the villagers while pondering Sir Bedemir's questions in the witch scene in Holy Grail:: 3.14159265 inches?

If that is correct, we're looking at a cubic volume of 3.14159265 inches. Times that by the number of weeks we've been together: 3.14159265 x 883 = 2,774.02631 cubic inches of waste.

Since 2,774.02631 inches = 231.168859 feet, that's about 231 cubic feet of waste.

Oh, wait. There are 1,728 cubic inches in a cubic foot. I don't even know if I'm doing this right.

2,774.02631/1,728 = 1.6053393 cubic feet of waste.

This much waste for one family. It may not seem like much, but it adds up. Your website doesn't provide statistics for how many pizzas have been made in its 25 years, but does say you have over 3,500 franchises. Think if each sold just one pizza a week:

1.6053393 x 3,500 =  5,618.68755 cubic feet of waste in one week for Special Garlic Dipping Sauce.

Dear Papa John's,

I have done math for you. I have used pi without "(e)." I risk the life of my children, my husband, and myself regularly to enjoy your product. I humbly ask that you consider allowing your customers to choose to not be exposed to the mess of any more Special Garlic Dipping Sauce. It's not just for the people, but for our environment.

Sincerely,
mrtl

It's Friday! Friday! Ge'in Down on Friday!

You know for whom I don't feel sorry today? Rebecca Black.

Yes, she's getting ripped hard, but like Oscar Wilde said, "The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about." Many will be tuning in to see what she does next. I hope it's spectacular, but even if it's not, we're retro in the 80's now, so having some Debbie Gibson or Tiffany redux will do just fine. Besides, she's 13. There's time to milk this and improve.

::tangent to get lost in Epic Mullet Guy's eyes::
AM's hubby alerted me to Kyle Puccia's cover of "Friday." It's incredibly haunting, and very 80's with the mullet, and his dance moves and facial expressions are hysterical.

Also, he's offered a FREE DOWNLOAD today.

Please don't lose the mullet. Maybe the rat tail, but not the mullet.

::end tangent to get lost in Epic Mullet Guy's eyes::

No, I don't feel sorry AT ALL for Rebecca Black. I do feel sorry for the rapper in her video. Who is he? No one's talking about him because no one knows who the hell he is. Lack of foresight in the self-promotion department, sir. I'm sure he'll be trying to stake his claim soon enough; he's missing out on some personal appearance opportunities.

I also feel sorry for my thighs. In my attempts to choreograph the song yesterday, I did A LOT of squats. It was a workout I'm feeling today, especially going up and down the stairs. With Bug home sick and needing some coddling, the stairs were well attended. Ouch. But the dance? Damn I wish I were back in Anchorage because it'd make a damned fine flash mob.

Of Irish I Have Part, and the Irish in My Heart

Today is the day I would usually exploit my bit o' Irishness, but since I gave up drinking for Lent, I'll simply celebrate it (ironically, since I'll still wear my "Let's Get Ready to Stumble" t-shirt after my lack of foresight and laundering rendered my favorite shamrocky shirt dirty) by honoring some Irish people whom I miss.

I am one-fourth Irish. My paternal grandmother's family came from Tipperary. I don't know when; genealogy has escaped us. Yet another thing to put on my bucket list. Anyway, since she was the only grandparent I had a close relationship with (my paternal grandfather died when I was little, and my maternal grandparents were inaccessible, uninvolved, or both), I feel much more attached to my quarter of Irishness than my half Germanness, and my other parts Englishness and Cherokeeness nessy ness.

Grandma didn't exert her Irish heritage. I didn't even know from where her family hailed in Ireland until a couple years after her death when we were trying to pick baby names for Bug (Tipperary was out, as was her family name since it was too popular and means "ugly head," which I could not get past). She was just a good human, an incredible woman who lived for her family, could smile like Stan Laurel, admired but hated Tiger Woods (she rooted for the underdogs and she said that Tiger was just too damned good), favored Canadian whiskey in her highballs with ginger ale (and when she slipped some into the chile con queso to give it a kick), and kept her friends much longer than her life (it's not uncommon to see them still at family events; she passed in 2001). Even in her 80's she could still be found climbing out second-floor windows onto the roof to clean windows or gutters. Even in a hospital bed after having her second stroke she would laugh sarcastically at a lame joke or enjoy a granddaughter's fervent attempt at making Emeril's banana cream pie since it was her favorite. I'm sad she never met the girls.

My other MIA dear and darling Irish one is a man who named me "Small." He met my girls; called them "Smaller" and "Smallest." With his white beard and cable-knit fisherman's sweaters he reminded me of Ernest Hemingway. His eyes were most bright and full of fun, especially when he was in his element (anything related to the Marines), and they never gave away the hard lessons of his past. My fondest memory was our rare chance of riding on a RAC. He squealed like a little girl from experiencing the craft's ability to go really fast, then turn on a dime by going vertical, stern in the water, and swiveling around. I enjoyed it, but was straddling the bench behind him and holding onto him for dear life. He taught me the valuable lesson to always eat my peaches first. (This from eating MRE's during his service in Vietnam, 'cause hell if he was going to let someone sit on his dead body eating his peaches.) I'm looking forward to moving closer to his resting place so I can go and eat some peaches there -- not on his gravesite, mind you, but next to it, and not his peaches since I'll take some for him, too.

::sniff:: Soothe me, Bing!

Just Don't Look at Me, Sparky

My bad memory sometimes tricks me into remembering things that never happened. Like sometimes I am so sure I've written about something that I Google till my eyeballs are about to fall out trying to hunt it down. Certainly I'm just using the wrong search term.

::tangent for memory not failed::
It's commonplace for me to start retelling a story, not realizing that I've told it. Mister mrtl knows that I won't get butt sore when he stops me because he's already heard that one. One time when this wasn't the case was in telling him about my last serious relationship (see second love), which I deliberately delayed until I was more sure of us. Imagine my mortification when mister mrtl -- then my boyfriend of only a few months -- stopped me because he already knew. Imagine his mortification when he realized he hadn't heard it from me, but from hearing my mother's stories at the office.
::end tangent for memory not failed::

Today I had a Google fest to find where I had written about chaperoning my first dance as a teacher. I'm still shocked I didn't.

Story Time with mrtl

Once upon a time mrtl graduated from college and started teaching middle school Language Arts. So fresh-faced was she that she was often mistaken for a student (e.g., questioned about being in the hallway during class times, charged student rates in the cafeteria, being asked to school dances by 8th-grade boys). Add to that her first-year lack of assertiveness and we have a recipe for some severe embarrassment.

For Halloween that year mrtl dressed as a hippie (see jeans on Newt), which got her asked to the dance by a boy in the neighboring homeroom. Said boy was never seen at the dance; poor thing must have been too traumatized and humiliated. mrtl, however, attended as a chaperone.

The principal of the school was this portly, walrus-mustached fellow who looked a lot like a younger Wilford Brimley. He was a Very Serious, no-nonsense man who parked himself near the DJ's raised table to ensure that no students harrassed the DJ with their song requests.

This was mrtl's first chaperoning experience and she enjoyed it immensely. Her dance stylings were (and still are) PERFECT for middle school dances, and paired with her youthful appearance, she was easily able to sidle up to groups of students who looked to be up to no-good shenanigans.

Her age and musical knowledge was also of benefit to her success as a chaperone, like when the DJ turned on an uncensored version of Nine Inch Nails' "Animal." Her first-year lack of assertiveness, however, was not. Had it been, mrtl would have immediately made a beeline for the DJ. Instead she went to the principal.

mrtl: You need to have the DJ turn this song off.

principal: Why?

mrtl: It's uncensored.

principal: What's it saying?

mrtl: [panicking inside, stomach turning and feeling cold chills before leaning in and whispering in his ear] I want to fuck you like an animal.

principal: [totally not hearing her] What?

mrtl: [panicking moreso and speaking a little more loudly] I want to fuck you like an animal!

principal: [obviously deaf] What?

mrtl: [realizing all hope is lost for retaining any shred of dignity now -- which by the way helped when she pooped during labor -- and screaming] I WANT TO FUCK YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL!!1

principal: [goes wide-eyed, huffing, and books it to the DJ]

After this, my principal and I rarely made eye contact.

end Story Time with mrtl

Today I was reminded of this moment. Nine Inch Nails has already been in my brain, but the electrician who came today reminded me a lot of the principal who reminded me of Wilford Brimley. It was hard to look him in the eye, too.

I'm Corny About Her Tits

Related Post 1 | Related Post 2

Yesterday I FINALLY got my friend's tits in the mail for her. Having been way too easily frustrated and distracted, procrastinating to get them completed, I was intent on sending them overnight by FedEx. Then I found out that to do so would cost over $100, which would piss mister mrtl off and compound my tit guilt. She'll get them by Tuesday instead.

In my haste, I didn't include any information about her tits. I didn't include a note about the fiber used and how to care for them. When my existing stash failed me (too much time away from knitting makes trying to double fiber for correct thickness result in more knotting than knitting), and not wanting to trust buying online, I found an interesting option at my local knitting shop.

::tangent to note redemption of local knitting shop::
When I first moved to this town, the shop carried mostly acrylic. While they still don't carry a lot of the brands I was spoiled on in Alaska and jaunts to Seattle and Portland, they're stocking so much more now. Just in time for our departure.
::end tangent to note redemption of local knitting shop::

I'd never heard of yarn made from corn. CORN! It's Corntastic! Really, that's the name of it. See for yourself! I was really excited to find an alternative natural yarn. Besides, I love corn!

::tangent to address corn love::
We're going to make corn dogs this week! I know they don't look too appetizing, so the girls are going to either refuse to eat them or take a bite and say they're not hungry. I may have to suggest a race to see who will finish first and get ice cream. mwahahaha

Borrowed from Someecards, the corn-eating personality test: 

Considering this, someone's going to call Child Protective Services on mister mrtl.

Oh hell. What does this say about me taking the picture and posting it online?
::end tangent to address corn love::

Let's get back to titty talk.

I was momentarily worried that her son is allergic to corn. He's allergic to a lot of stuff. Then I realized that he has no business playing with his mother's tits anyway, so we're good, right? Damn, I hope it's all right. Now I'm worrying again that he'll have a reaction hugging her. Fuck. Sending message and crossing fingers to get a response soon that this won't be an issue.

Update: Not only is said friend's son NOT allergic to corn, but she loves KORN, too! ::happy clapping::

Redirecting...

It was referenced in my initial post that the recipient of these tits is a HUGE fan of Trent Reznor. HUGE! If it weren't for the yarn, frustration, distraction, and other procrastination issues, I would have pursued making some fancy design on the tits to pay homage to this. As it would turn out, that base was covered anyway. In trying to determine how to feng shui the weights.

::tangent about feng shui'ing the weights::
The pattern suggests personalizing the weights with a symbol or word to represent a positive of the cancer experience. I focused on a Japanese symbol instead of a Chinese one because my friend's husband has travelled a bit to Japan with his job, making that more personal for her. 

With the many challenges facing my friend, what with her kid's allergies, mom's bout with breast cancer, hubby's travel, and her fight against breast cancer, the word that came to mind was "perserverance." She'd need a lot of that, more than any other character that came to mind, and since it's already been addressed that I didn't want to send her disproportionate tits, I decided to feng shui both tits thusly.
::end tangent about feng shui'ing the weights::

While looking online to find the Kanji for "perserverance," I was delighted to find the perfect character. Check this out:

See that up in the corner? Next to the Japanese flag is "nin," because in Japanese the character is used in the Kanji for "ninja." It's thrilling whether it's part ninja or a secret shout out to Nine Inch Nails. Additionally, don't two half ninjas make a whole?

She can't lose whether she has a ninja protecting her chest or Trent Reznor in her bra.

 

Attentiveness to Detail FAIL

Update: Thrilling news! I SUCK AT GAUGE! Not that that's news. Anyway, when I stuffed those A-puppies, they're closer to a C/D than an A. The bigger ones may be too big. I'll still make a set, in case she wants to get her Dolly Parton on. Woot!

~~~

While knitting some tits for my friend who currently has none and is waiting ever-so-patiently to get some (not that kind of "some"), I realized why my first attempt rendered one that is horrendously disproportionate to the other. No problem here... got new pieces knit up and ready for stuffing.

But then... I discover my error. The pair I've almost finished are A-cups, not D. Of course she's going to want the three inches. DON'T ALL WOMEN WANT THREE MORE INCHES?!

I think I'll send the A's ahead while I get the D's knockered out.

What's the lesson learned here? Keep your titties ready.