As I was at the gym tonight, staring in fascination at these things they call “music videos” which display on screens throughout the gym during time I should have been doing this thing they call “working out,” an “accidental” juxtaposition led me to an insight more startling than the insight that those little stickers which say “Keep away when machine is in use” might prevent pinching-to-the-point-of-near-amputation. Where was I? Oh, yeah, the insight:
Celine Dion is the result of a partially-successful French-Canadian attempt to clone Cher.
Come on, deep in the bowels of the Canadian health system, you know they looked southward sometime in 1968 and said, “What is best of American culture?” and, since there’s French in French-Canadian, they looked to the most, um, flamboyant of music coupled with the most dowdy spouse (which is undoubtedly how Quebec thinks of the other provinces). So they sent their crack secret agents to get a mouth swab from Cher, to ensure her beat goes on, so to speak.
Unfortunately, their cloning technology was limited due to budget constraints and bureaucratic infighting. So the clone, “Celine” (French for Cher), was of smaller stature, and due to limitations in the maintenance budget, underfed. Also, due to the unfortunate accident of her French Canadianosity, she speaks French.
But look how it all adds up. She marries her “manager,” which is to say the lead scientist in the secret project that produced her. Come on, this explains why someone that the French Canadians would consider marginally hot (especially since the basis of comparison would be Alanis Morissette) would marry someone over forty years her senior and would bear his genetically-enhanced children (undoubtedly, clones of David Bowie and Iggy Pop).
Just ask the Canadian prime minister about it if you get the chance. He’ll deny everything, of course, and that will be all the proof you need.