"We're not watching this shit," I said to Sonja. It was Celine Dion on my television.
"Yes we are," Sonja corrected me. "She's Canadian."
I hate it when I get the red and white waved in my face, especially when the red and white is really blue and white. Celine is Canadian as fuck I guess. I watched.
For two hours.
Two hours of crap.
It was one of those evenings beer was made for.
Or so I thought.
As Celine stretched the fuck out of a high note Sonja reached for the sharpest knife in the drawer. "Anne Murray can't sing like that."
Sonja was right. Celine screeched away like a Quebec city without a modern hockey arena. "Anne Murray might not be able to sing like Celine," I agreed, "but Celine cannot sing like Anne Murray either."
It was my turn to be right. It felt good. The show would be over soon. I drank my beer.