International ambassador of the ancient Quebecois artform of chest-thump singing Celine Dion was nabbed by an unfeeling British tabloid press recently. Her crime: performing to a Tokyo crowd sporting a pair of unwaxed legs, giving her the aura of a power-ballad-belting kiwifruit when exposed to harsh backlighting. It's precisely this kind of music industry double-standard (Tom Jones had to insure his chest against depilatory acts of God) that really makes us appreciate all that goes into being a French Canadian diva, and resist our reflexive instinct to make greatest-hits-inspired jokes ("I Drove All Night (To Find An Open Drug Store Selling Venus Razors)," "(What Do You Say To) Taking Personal Grooming Chances," etc...) at the singer's expense.
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