the supporter of womens' [sic] rights has long been absent, leaving a cavity in the ether like the one between dragovail's legs (suck it, you Level 16 skin flautist). but to assuage the inevitable pangs of want (& wont), let me furnish you thus:
the object of all mortals' desire, jan terri rocks the mic, not dissimilar to the way the camera operator has elected to provide a fucking backdrop of the chicago yacht club, replete with sewage pipe befouling the inner harbour.
say what you will, but terri sets the bar for musical hooks, rendering all other acts impotent. TSoWR defies all you pud-pullers to abstain from whistling this while you work. it cannot be done.