Thanksgiving is once again upon us, a time to once again spend one day of the year pretending to be grateful for our miserable lives before returning to our usual daily bitching and moaning. In no particular order, here are a few of the things I am thankful for this year:

- I am thankful that my turn on the national waiting list to get a reality show is down to the low seven figures. In 2035, America’s favorite TV celebrity will be a embittered middle aged white guy who complains about his back and about how today’s kids just don’t appreciate electric guitar feedback.

- I am thankful that George W. Bush pardoned at least one turkey this year. I am disappointed, however, that he did not grant the pardon of a retarded turkey convicted on three counts of manslaughter.

- I am thankful that the screaming, colicky baby in the apartment down the hall can only physically yell for 19 or 20 hours a day.

- I am thankful to have such kind, caring and supportive people on my parole board. Thanks, guys. You've turned our "hearings" into "dearrings."

- I am thankful to live in a country where one man can rise above such limitations as abundant stupidity, academic mediocrity, the inability to express himself clearly, and receiving fewer votes than his opponent to become the nation’s chief executive.

- I am thankful that I have no moral objections to eating animals, so I am not forced to choke down the abomination that is tofurkey.

- I am thankful that even though life is fleeting and devoid of any real meaning, and death stares us blankly in the face every day, threatening to wipe out our tenuous existence into the dull gray void of eternity, this is some damn good pie. Did you use real pumpkin for this?

MP3 - "Gideon's Bible" by John Cale, off of his first solo album Vintage Violence, which I rambled about way back in this blog's infancy. Unfortunately, the massive wave of renewed interest in Vintage Violence that I had anticipated after posting that rave review failed to materialize, so please enjoy a free MP3 of the best song from that excellent album.

The greatest rock critic blog ever.

(Note: If you haven’t seen the final episode of season 2 of The Office, spoilers abound in this entry.)

Well, holy shit, that was depressing. The final episode of The Office (barring the two special upcoming Christmas episodes) paid off the series’ central theme of the isolating, soul-numbing drudgery of modern white collar life in spades. Admittedly, it was a somewhat sharp shift in tone from understated, subtly satirical comedy to heartbreaking pathos, but I don’t think it could’ve ended any other way. Tim’s noble charge at the end - giving up settling for a slightly better position and a perfectly acceptable but passionless relationship for a shot at the brass ring - was doomed to failure from the start, but you have to admire someone momentarily standing up from the gray prison of the office and doing something, anything, to redirect the course of fate. David Brent’s breakdown after his firing was handled brilliantly, forcing the viewer to feel momentary pity and sadness for the poor lug before pulling it away with one of his typically moronic monologues at the end. Brent doesn’t learn anything from his experiences, and one has to figure that he’ll land elsewhere and find an entirely new set of wage slaves to condescend to and irritate. At least Tim has finally shed some of his illusions - David Brent will probably still think his underlings adore and respect him while they mock him behind his back or fantasize about his death.

What set The Office apart from a normal sitcom is its unflinching eye on all of the vagaries and indignities of the modern office, the types of things that most of us would rather not focus on as we try to cheerfully muck through our day-to-day lives without turning to booze, pills or total escapism. The final episode brought that point home with a vengeance. The moral of the series? Not everyone can do or get what they really want, and sometimes the best you can do is shuffle papers under the charge of a unctuous failed comedian and unrequitedly pine for the cute secretary. That’s a pretty harsh piece of truth to swallow in the guise of a situation comedy, and it’s a credit to Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant that they were able to put together one of the most searing, indicting bits of social satire of our times while also providing some of the most flat-out hilarious moments in the history of sitcoms.

NEW SADDAM TAPE FEATURES CALL FOR RESISTANCE, SEX WITH PARIS HILTON

A new videotape aired Sunday on the Arabic news network al-Jazeera is believed to show deposed Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein issuing a strongly worded message to American forces in Iraq and having sex with millionaire hotel heiress Paris Hilton.

"I urge all of my countrymen to resist this illegal and immoral occupation. Until the Americans withdraw from our nation, we cannot peaceably accept a new government. A true government can only come from the will of the Iraqi people," stated Hussein.

Hussein then received fellatio and had sex in several positions with Hilton, apparently in the back seat of a military vehicle.

The tape ran 18 minutes and was interrupted several times for cell phone calls from Chicago Bears linebacker Brian Urlacher, Strokes guitarist Albert Hammond, Jr. and former RCC Vice Chairman Izzat Ibrahim Al-Duri.

Despite her apparent ties with the former Iraqi leader, American officials have no plans to question Hilton for any knowledge of Hussein's whereabouts.

"Let's be honest, here. Odds are she was so coked out of her mind that she didn't remember anything, anyway. I mean, we can't really expect her to remember much about any of the guys she has sex with," said Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld in a Sunday briefing.

Rumsfeld refused to comment on the persistent rumors of another tape featuring Osama bin Laden, Nicky Hilton and male model Jason Shaw.

The weather has turned cold in this area of the world, so that means it's once again the perfect time of year to listen to sad bastard music. This is "Western Sky" by American Music Club off of their excellent (and lamentably out of print) 1988 album California. Mark Eitzel is one of the masters of writing depressingly beautiful songs without drowning in self-pity or resorting to cliche. "Western Sky" is a damn-near-perfect piece of musical imagery - it evokes empty, wide-open skies and solitary drives down barren stretches of highway in the American west.

CBS recently opted not to air its miniseries about the presidency of Ronald Reagan after charges of bias from the Republican National Committee and other conservative pressure groups. What wasn’t reported was that the RNC proposed several re-written scenes to make the program more hagiographical - pardon me, “balanced.” The Vitamin B Glandular Show has obtained a few pages from the RNC’s version of the Reagan miniseries, which we present to you now as a worldwide exclusive:

(SCENE: Summit meeting, Reykjavik, Iceland. President Reagan and his advisers are sitting face to face with Russian President Mikhail Gorbachev.)

GORBACHEV: We are willing to discuss a 20% decrease in short range and intercontinental ballistic missiles over the next five years, as well as increases in the amount of food sales between our two countries.

REAGAN: Forget it, Mikhail. We demand that Russia dismantle its military, get out of Central America and Eastern Europe and convert to capitalism. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Heard of a little thing called “Star Wars?” That’s right, we have the technology to shoot down your entire nuclear arsenal.

GORBACHEV: Let me discuss this with my comrades.

GORBACHEV (in Russian): It’s over, gentlemen. We cannot defeat this brave and dignified leader.

RUSSIAN ADVISOR #1 (in Russian): Damn this missile defense shield! It is impregnable! We will never defeat the Americans now!

RUSSIAN ADVISOR #2 (in Russian): If only Walter Mondale were in that chair - then we could crush the Americans. But we will never defeat Ronald Reagan. We must surrender on their terms.

GORBACHEV: Very well, Mr. President, we accept your demands.

REAGAN: Oh, yeah, one more thing - say I’m your mama.

GORBACHEV: (sighs) Very well. I’m your mother.

(REAGAN high fives James Baker and George Bush)

(SCENE: The Oval Office. REAGAN is flanked by senators and congressmen from both parties.)

REAGAN: I am proud to sign into law this budget for 1987 which will provide the United States of America with a record $100 billion surplus. This administration has succeeded in completely wiping out our national debt while cutting taxes for everyone. We have also wiped out poverty and created untold economic growth through supply side economics and capital gains tax cuts.

TIP O’NEILL: I just want to apologize to you, Mr. President, for ever doubting your economic policies. I was wrong - giving tax cuts to the wealthiest Americans is the only way to improve the economy.

(Former President Jimmy Carter enters the room.)

JIMMY CARTER: I know I wasn’t invited to this press conference, but I just wanted to take this opportunity to say what an incredible failure I was as president, and how thankful I am that Americans elected this wonderful, visionary leader instead of me.

REAGAN: Thank you, gentlemen, but we can never rest as long as there’s an industrialist or Wall Street bond trader who has to pay a nickel of his hard earned money to the IRS.

(SCENE: Bitburg Military Cemetery, Germany. President Reagan is about to lay a wreath in a cemetery containing the remains of Nazi stormtroopers.)

NAZI #1 (in German): The American president is about to glorify the dead of our fallen war heroes.

NAZI #2 (in German): Surely this will bring great glory to our cause!

(REAGAN tears off flowers on wreath to reveal a Thompson submachine gun.)

REAGAN: That’s what you think, Fritz! Eat lead, Nazi scum! (REAGAN mows down a line of Nazi soldiers, then turns over a Nazi tomb to reveal a hidden fortress. Several dazed American prisoners of war emerge from the wreckage.)

REAGAN: Come on, men. Follow me…to FREEDOM! (An army helicopter swoops down to lead the men to safety.)

POW: Thank you, Mr. President. However can we thank you?

REAGAN: I’m just doing my job, soldier. That’s why the American people elected me - to lead the nation, cut the red tape caused by those bureaucrats in Washington, and kick a little Nazi ass.

This blog shall rise from the ashes with new updates in mid-November. In the meantime, please enjoy these fine web-based products:

- Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs and Incidences by Daniil Kharms.

- Some great streaming radio stations from Live365:
This is Radium Crass (a mix of skewed pop, experimental noise and comedy)
Left of the Dial (alternative/modern rock/indie/blahblah)
Radio Club 870 (pre-/no prefix-/post-punk)
Turn Me On Dead Man (psychamadelic/garage freakouts)

- The 365 Days Project - an MP3 each day of outsider music, weird religious tracts, celebrities embarrassing themselves, and other aural curiousities. (More, oh much more, on this when I return.)

- If you haven't yet, check out the sites linked on the right. Lots of smart, insightful, funny commentary inna blog style.

Haven't posted a new MP3 in a while, so here's the MP3 of the fortnight or month or whatever unit of time it's been since the last one - the original version of "Dazed and Confused" by Jake Holmes. This version is actually better than the more famous Led Zeppelin version, in my opinion - it's more tense and builds dramatically through the song with a seething intensity that's missing from the great but overwrought Zeppelin rendition.

The Continuing Adventures of Ralph Pruitt, The World’s Last Honest Man

“So, Ralph, how was your weekend?”

“Miserable. I spent all weekend sobbing profusely and drinking Tanqueray straight from the bottle. At least I blacked out for most of Sunday, but when I awoke, I resumed my constant screaming, pleading for the release of the death that will not come.”

“Oh.”

“How about you?”

“Oh, pretty good. Watched the game yesterday, saw ‘Veronica Guerin’ with the wife.”

“How was that?”

“Better than you’d think, actually.”

A few impromptu thoughts on the base-ball matches of the past week:

- It goes without saying that Grady Little is a dope. I watched the fateful 8th inning unfold with shocked disbelief, amazed that Little would let Pedro Martinez die on the mound as Yankee after Yankee pounded his movement-less breaking stuff and dying fastballs all over the stadium. This is an old Red Sox tradition of stupid managerial decisions - from starting Denny Galehouse in the 1948 playoff game to Don Zimmer mismanaging the pitching staff in 1978 to John McNamara not putting in a defensive substitute for the immobile Bill Buckner in 1986. That's why I hate this "Red Sox are cursed" business - when you keep bashing your own fingers into a pulp with a hammer, no sensible person blames it on "The Curse of Home Depot."

- The Steve Bartman incident just goes to show you what White Sox fans have been saying for years - Cubs fans, by and large, are more interested in grabbing souvenirs and downing Old Styles than actually following a winning club. Maybe a near miss like this will finally shake Cubdom of that whole goofy "gosh, they're losers, but we love 'em anyway" thing, but I doubt the Tribune Company would want to let go of a marketing technique that has served them well (and allowed them to duck responsibility from fielding a competitive club). And yes, I did indulge in a bit of schadenfreude over the Cub loss. Pathetic, maybe, but when you root for a team that last won a playoff series 61 years before your birth, you have to take your thrills where you find them.

- That "God Bless America/Take Me Out to the Ball Game/Cotton Eye Joe/Oye Como Va/New York, New York/Afternoon Delight/Nights in White Satin" medley they play at the 7th inning stretch of Yankee games - could that be a little more self-indulgent, please? Could we get Rick Wakeman to do a 19 minute keyboard solo? Maybe an interpretative dance salute to Kevin Maas? There's no better way to express your patriotism than by having a huge, expensive masturbation session in front of 57,000 people. It's like measuring someone as a true American based on the size of the novelty hat they buy on July 4th.

- Thanks to the miracle of constant commercial repetition, I now have the following phrases etched into my memory:
"Standing on the corner, watching all the guys go by."
"And now for ze best part, he's reeech!"
"It's OK, I had Subway."
"His father is the DISTRICT ATTORNEY!"
Long after I'm permanently ensconced in some cheap, fly by night nursing home and I've forgotten my name and the names of everything and everyone around me, I'll be muttering those phrases over and over again.

Issue #2 of the High Hat is up and ready for your perusal. Lots and lots of smart, witty, thoughtful, original pop culture commentary and analysis from some damn fine writers.

And, lest I forget this blog's chief mission of endless self-promotion, here's my contribution - an interview with underground pop-funk legend Gary Wilson.

(With all apologies to the Onion.)

Election of Schwarzenegger Causes Californians to Lose Smug Superiority

Tuesday’s stunning victory by Arnold Schwarzenegger in California’s gubernatorial election has already had an instant effect on the psyche of Californians. Overnight, California residents, particularly in liberal enclaves such as San Francisco and Santa Cruz, have been forced to abandon their traditional sense of smug superiority and self-satisfaction over the rest of the country.

“I used to make fun of my cousin in Nevada for living in such a backward state full of rubes. But now, what can I say? The people in this state just elected a incomprehensible movie actor with no experience and no clearly defined plan besides ‘I vant to clean up Sacramento,’” said Elaine Strauss, a social worker from Alameda. “I guess I was wrong - people in this state is just as dumb as they are everywhere else.”

“Ever since California became one of the largest, most important states in the country in the early 1900’s, the sense that California is a special place filled with people who are more unique and intelligent than the rest of the country has become a huge part of this state’s definition of itself,” said Robert Milton, professor of sociology at UCLA. “It’s a tremendous blow for people to realize that California isn’t really the center of culture and progressive leadership that we had thought.”

“Governor Schwarzenegger,” he added, muttering under his breath. “What the fuck? I mean, what the fucking fuck?”

Even defenses such as irony or self-mocking humor have proven unsuccessful at warding off the shame and humiliation felt by non-Schwarzenegger voting California residents.

“I tried to make a joke about it the other day at work: ‘Governor Schwarzenegger? What’s next-’ and then I stopped, because I literally couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous,” said Alan Walker, a San Jose computer programmer. “I’m already looking for real estate in Seattle or Vancouver. I don’t think I can take another year of lame fucking Schwarzenegger impressions.”

Nevertheless, Californians continue to soldier forward and hope for the best.

“We survived Nixon and Reagan, so we can survive this,” said Strauss. “But it’s going to be irritating to be the butt of every cheap joke in America for the next year or so. I never thought I’d say this, but I really miss Pete Wilson now.”

Here’s an excerpt from chapter one of my hardboiled mystery novel, “Credit Murder, Debit Intrigue.”

It was a Tuesday, 8:35 in the evening. I was just about to leave this dank office and head out onto the rain soaked streets. Go down to the local gin mill, catch a trolley home, listen to a game on the radio and turn in for the night.

My name’s Nick Ledger. I’m a CPA. It’s a hard racket, a world of tough characters, cheap women and hard liquor. Your only true companions are the trusty .38 at your hip and your amortization tables.

I was pondering the state of the Brooklyn Dodgers’ pitching staff when in walked this incredible dame. She had a pair of gams that stretched from here to Bakersfield, and the way she moved her hips was illegal in 13 states. I lit a Chesterfield while she made her way to the chair.

“Are you Mr. Ledger?”

“That’s what the bookies and parole board call me.”

“Mr. Ledger, I’m in dire need of assistance. You see, my father’s cardboard box plant has been losing money for the past two years. We’ve always made a profit, and we can’t figure out the problem.”

I could see where this was headed. This skirt wasn’t quite as innocent as she made herself out to be. Probably skimming from the top and trying to pin it on some other poor sap. Sure, dames are pretty to look at, but they go together with business like dogs and cats, like hot dogs and ketchup, like oil and…something that doesn’t mix well with oil. (So sue me, I’m an accountant, not a chemist.)

“Look, I’m willing to audit your books. But internal control and fraud prevention consulting - that’s extra. And you’ve got to do an internal audit.”

“Is that really necessary? Why, I’ve looked through the books myself, and I can’t find any problems.”

“You looked through the books?” I scoffed.

“What’s wrong with that, Mr. Ledger?”

“Accounting is a man’s world, dollface. It’s no place for a pretty little thing like you. You don’t know what these bastards are capable of doing. I got a slug in the neck once just for switching depreciation methods.”

“You have some very old fashioned ideas about women, Mr. Ledger,” she sniffed haughtily.

This gal was more poisonous than a New Jersey soil sample, but I didn’t have much choice. Business was slower than the hamburger concession in Bombay. The only things I was coming up with recently were hangovers and labored similes.

“All right, I’ll take the case, Miss --”

“Peterson.”

“Right. But you’ve got to leave the real work to the experts. Run off a few copies, make a pot of coffee, something like that, but I don’t want you messing around in my business, understand?”

“Well, Mr. Ledger, I won’t get in your way, but I intend to help out. I want to get to the bottom of this. Besides, I took a couple of accounting courses at the business college ---”

“Business college?” I laughed. “You can’t learn accounting in a school. You’ve got to get on the street, get your hands dirty, use your sources, put the works on some mugs if they give you the runaround.”

“Well, I realize I have much to learn, but I just want to help out. Can I count on your services starting next week?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it. Now I’ve got to go see a man about a horse. Just remember what I said.”

She slinked out of the office just as quickly as she had entered. I leaned back in my chair and poured out three fingers and a thumb of gin from my hip flask. No doubt, this was going to be a dangerous and suspense-filled case, filled with opportunities for me to make dry, witty observations and clever, sexually charged banter with gorgeous dames. I just hoped that my instincts wouldn’t fail me this time. One more major slipup and the AICPA will disbar me, and I’ll have to go back to the soulless drudgery of bookkeeping. Once you get a taste of living on the edge of danger, you never want to go back. That’s why I do what I do.

MP3 - "Seven Minutes of Funk" by Tyrone Thomas and the Whole Darn Family. Like the British say, it does what it says on the tin - a seven minute encapsulation of 70s era funk. Irresistable, omnipresent Bootsy Collins-esque bass line? Check. Meandering yet still rhythmic keyboard noodling? Check. Succinct horn punctuation? Check. Flute solo? Check. This was later the basis for one of the best rap singles of all time, "It's My Thing" by EPMD.

Look, blog, I’m sorry. I know I’ve been neglecting you lately, but I’ve been real busy with work, trying to finish my article for the High Hat #3 and studying for this damn exam that looms in just six weeks. Plus I've got to work in a couple of hours a day of aimless meandering. You know how it is.

I promise you, I’ll make it up to you soon. I’ll take you upstate to that little place in the woods. Just you and me. It’ll be just like old times, baby. Now, don't cry, and don't threaten to move back to your parents' house - we both know you're not going to do that. Look, this weekend I'll buy you a nice dinner at a moderately priced restaurant, finish writing that piece I've been procrastinating on...

(In other words, updates may be semi-sporadic here for the next few weeks. I realize that my primary goal in life is to provide a minute or two of faint bemusement for a handful of people every week, but other priorities are temporarily taking precedence. But the show will go on. I have five Word pages worth of half-written blog entries, and by God, I'm going to inflict every one of them on you whether you like it or not.)

I couldn't put up an MP3 on Friday due to the blackout and whatnot, so here ya go - it's "Rampe Rampe" by Kaleidoscope, a bit of Middle Eastern-influenced psychamadelic mayhem from 1968.

During the blackout, I kept a running journal of my Brush with Sort of Peril, Kind of. Here, now, is an unexpurgated account of the Greatest Struggle Mankind Has Ever Known. Children, those with heart conditions and the otherwise weak and infirm should not read this entry, lest the horror and danger cause permanent and irrepairable harm.

9/18, 4:45 pm
Electricity goes out for the first time. I am prepared - flashlight, spare batteries and whatnot. Hey, this'll be just like camping, except for all of that "fresh air" and "communing with nature" shit I studiously try to avoid.

9/18, 5:27 pm
Already, I am plagued by massive waves of boredom and ennui. I now realize exactly why so many Amish youths turn to crime.

9/18, 6:18 pm
Play my unplugged electric guitar. Manage to work out a passable version of Neil Young's "Like a Hurricane" from memory. This is the most notable guitar-related accomplishment I've had in three years.

9/18, 7:13 pm
Darkness sets in. The storm is gaining in intensity, although it doesn't really seem all that severe. Realize that I only have enough food for another day or two, because everything in the freezer or refrigerator has already gone bad. Start to wonder if I could eat one of my own toes. Finally admit to self that you shouldn't resort to cannibalism for at least a week.

9/18, 7:38 pm
Without the constant barrage of music and ambient TV white noise that usually fills my apartment, listening to my own thoughts becomes unavoidable. I've already had several really stupid internal arguments, and I finally realize why solitary confinement is considered such a punishment. On the other hand, I finally decide that Double Indemnity really was the best film noir of all time, even better than The Postman Always Rings Twice, although Lana Turner was the sine qua non ne plus ultra casus belli femme fatale of mid-40s cinema.

9/18, 8:46 pm
I long for some form of televised entertainment. I don't even watch much TV, but I'm jonesing right now. A rerun of "One Day at a Time." Televised soccer. A paid political advertisement for a juice maker. Anything.

9/18, 10:01 pm
For the eighth time, I have the unfulfilled urge to Google something.

9/18, 10:36 pm
Some mind altering drugs would really hit the spot right now.

9/18, 11:13 pm
Fall asleep earlier than I have in two years. Realize that electricity is partly to blame for my chronic insomnia.

9/19, 7:56 am
Wake up to call the office and see if power has been restored there. Yes, it has - the only building in the entire metropolitan area, miraculously. Of all the bitter ironies I've had to swallow in a lifetime, this one...well, it's not the worst, but it's in the top 10. Take the world's coldest shower ever and go to work.

9/19, 1:36 pm
Return home from work (only a half day) to find the power is still off. Try to think of fun things that people did before the advent of electricity, but no one else in the apartment building seems to be interested in hootenannies, ether frolics or making corn liquor.

9/19, 2:13 pm
I organize and clean my desk. I have obviously hit rock bottom.

9/19, 2:59 pm
For the fifth time since the blackout began, I turn the lights on when entering a room.

9/19, 3:51 pm
Call Pepco for ninth time today, but no estimates on restoration were given beyond "three days to a week." I've already had a long hallucination involving myself as a lieutenant during the Civil War, so I doubt I'll maintain my sanity if it takes a week for power to return. And I'm not sure what I'll do with these letters I wrote to "my dearest Eulabelle."

9/19, 5:26 pm
Concede defeat and leave to go back to my parents' house to do laundry.

I guess we all learn something about ourselves when we face adversity, and I learned that in times of crisis, I'm an incredibly self-absorbed, spoiled, narcissistic whiner. I kind of figured that, but it was good to have it finally proven once and for all.

I am currently writing this from a secure, undisclosed location. (OK, it's my parents' house, where I have temporarily relocated so I can do my laundry and eat something besides canned soup and warm Coke.) Once the power is restored at Vitamin B Glandular Show World Headquarters, I'll regale you all with my hurricane story. It's a bracing tale of man emerging triumphant against the elements - sort of like a Jack London novel, but with a lot more petty whining and bitching. Also, expect the phrase "Pepco can eat a dick" to be liberally sprinkled throughout the text.

As I write this, Hurricane Isabel is threatening the mid-Atlantic region. As usual, the DC metro area has gone into Insane Weather Overreacting Mode - the weathermen relishing their one moment in the sun by predicting doom like an Old Testament prophet, frenzied crowds at the supermarket for bread/milk/toilet paper (whether it’s for personal use or for cornering the black market after civilization breaks down, I don’t know), that same list that keeps getting passed around of Things You Absolutely Must Have to Survive in a Post-Hurricane World (flashlights, batteries, the pine needles which will become our new national currency, etc.) and a general sense of overamplified paranoia. People around here go temporarily insane over something like a 6” snowfall, so you can imagine just how irrational people have gotten over this.

I guess I’m of two minds on this whole turn of events. On one hand, the untold death and destruction would be catastrophic. On the other hand, I could really use a day off from work. And on the other other hand, there’s a gigantic tree just outside of my apartment, and a hurricane will probably topple it over and crush me while I’m sitting in my living room watching old Match Game reruns. So I guess my options are another day at work or sudden, horrific death. All I can say is: bring it on Mother Nature, you vicious, insatiable whore.