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In the depths of this past winter, I received a missive from one Robert Wetenhall, long-suffering owner of the Montreal Alouettes.

The subject was crow.

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One of us, Wetenhall suggested, was going to be dining on the finest crow come the end of the CFL season — because one of us had to be very wrong about the prospects of Wetenhall’s football club. I said they would go nowhere with Popp as coach, he insisted I was wrong.

Wetenhall proposed a friendly wager: If the Alouettes had a successful season, I would be the one eating crow. If they didn’t, the crow would be on Wetenhall’s plate. My trusty sidekick Zeke Herbowsky was assigned the task of finding a farmer to shoot the crow. Wetenhall was to provide the chef and the wager was more or less forgotten — until the Alouettes hit the skids and I began to think that I might not have to decide between crowburgers and crow drumsticks after all.

I wasn’t worried, because certain truths are self-evident: Billy Joel’s It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me is one of the dumbest songs ever written.