The Sweetest Touchdown Celebration in the Universe

by Liston, Introducing Liston

You know what I hate? NFL touchdown celebrations, that's what. I hate watching them, I hate hearing about them, I hate that sports writers actually write entire articles about them. (I'm well aware of the irony.) Now, don't get me wrong, I love the idea of NFL touchdown celebrations, but I hate the lackluster effort given by the players who come up with them. A touchdown is a beautiful and majestic moment and should be treated as such.

Let's talk logistics. There are maybe 400 different people on the planet that have the opportunity to celebrate a touchdown in the NFL each year. 400 people out of 6 billion. That's less than 0.00000005% of the world's population! Think about it like this. Count all of the hours you've spent looking at porn on the internet. Now compare that to how many hours of community service you've done this month. That's how many people get to celebrate a touchdown in the NFL.

Each touchdown, no matter how trivial or mundane, needs to be greeted with a worthwile celebration. I mean, I've been watching the NFL for twenty years and have yet to see a really good celebration. Think about it. The ball spike? Lame. The high step? Racist towards Jews. (It may have been perfected by Deion Sanders but it was invented by the Nazis.) The Ickey Shuffle? An abomination. The Electric Slide? Pfft, more like the Shitty Slide. Any of Chad Johnson's shenanigans? Amateur hour. T.O.'s sharpie, pom poms, and immitation Ray-Lewis-dance? Gay, gay, and gay. I'm talking about a real touchdown celebration. I want a touchdown celebration so incredible that it will blind you if you look directly at it. A touchdown celebration so magnanimous that all the females that watched it wake up pregnant the next day. A touchdown celebration so miraculuos that it could bring an aborted baby back to life. A touchdown celebration so wonderful that it would completely cancel out the horribleness of the Holocaust. That's what I'm looking for.

I can promise you this: If I ever scored a touchdown in the NFL, the celebration would go down in history. It'd be the most amazing and elaborate feat mankind has ever laid eyes upon. It'd be so great that if a scientist cured cancer and AIDS on the same day I scored a touchdown, people would have conversations at work the next day like, "Hey, Mike. Did you hear they cured cancer and AIDS? Your child is going to live! Isn't that great?" and Mike would respond, "Whatever, dude. Did you see that touchdown celebration by Liston last night?! It was beautiful."

Let me paint a picture for you. Let's say I was playing receiver for the Texans. I run a simple button hook for a 4 yard touchdown catch in the second quarter of a game against the Colts that we're losing 31-03. Here's how it'd go: I'd jog over to the referee and flip him the ball real classy like. Then, all of the lights in the stadium would go out. Everyone starts to freak out. A lone spotlight comes on and shines directly on me. I'm standing perfectly still in the middle of the endzone like a statue. Everybody is just looking at me, wondering what's going on. The rest of the lights come back on and my entire team has changed out of their football uniforms and into zombie monster costumes. They start to close in on me as I stay standing perfectly still, looking like a totally rad statue. Bam! There's a gigantic explosion at the 50 yard line that leaves a huge hole in the ground. The zombie monsters continue to creep towards me. Bam! Another explosion at the 50 yard line like the first except this time Michael Jackson comes shooting out of the hole holding one of those keyboards that looks like a guitar! As soon as he lands he starts jamming his international hit Thriller. It blares over the speakers. Me and the zombie monsters start doing the Thriller dance and the crowd goes bonkers. Women start taking their tops off and screaming cause I'm so hot. Just when it's about to really get out of control NFL commissioner Roger Goodell walks out onto the field with all the confidence and swagger of a Roman Emperor. The crowd falls hush. The zombie monsters stop dancing. Roger Goodell walks to within a few paces of me and says, "Your fame is well deserved Football player, what is your name?... You do have a name?" I pause just for a second then respond "My name is Football player". I turn and walk away. The crowd gasps. They can't believe what they are seeing. A common football player has turned his back on the Commissioner. "You will remove your helmet and tell me your name" the Commissioner forcefully announces. Again, with my back still facing him, I pause. Deep breath. I slowly remove my helmet. Another deep breath. I turn around, look him square in his contemptuous eyes and say "My name is Maximus Desmus Meridius. Commander of the football team of Houston. Loyal servant to the true Commissioner Paul Tagliabue. Father to a murdered son. Husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next." The Commissioner can not believe his eyes. He had assumed I was dead. There's a cold silence. At that moment countless Roman Gladiators storm onto the field. It seems like there are millions of them. A battle rages so intense that it moves the planets. Fifteen minutes later all but one lay dead on the field. (Me) I am the lone survivor. I stand at midfield, bloodsoaked and victorious. Somebody screams "LOOK OUT!" when, in what seems like slow motion, the stadium's Jumbotron gives way and falls directly on top of me. "NOOOOOO!!!!!" screams my mother from her section 202 row 9 seat. The stadium is completely quiet, save for a few crying men and someone's cell phone playing My humps by The Black Eyed Peas . You could hear a pin drop but instead you hear a creaking noise. The Jumbotron starts to shake. All eyes, teary and not, turn towards the massive machine. Suddenly all four sides open up and fall to the ground. I'm standing inside, perfectly safe like a bad ass magic trick, with 80's rock band Journey directly behind me. I'm wearing a glittery one piece jumpsuit and leather vest. The band starts jamming their song Don't Stop Believin' and the crowd goes frigg'n nuts! Women start going into premature labor, men start punching each other and spitting on stuff. I take out a special whistle and blow into it. A gigantic white tiger comes jogging out onto the field. I hop onto it's back and ride off into the players tunnel as they release a 1000 doves into the fresh Indianapolis night air. Texans 10, Colts 31.

That's how you celebrate a touchdown my friend. That's how you celebrate a touchdown.