Who invited the NFL Rulebook?

That asshole shut the tunes down at 9 p.m., forced our clambake outdoors and started cleaning up party trash before the third guest even arrived. (Monica Geller-Bing, if you will. You will.)

Then, in the middle of the redneck-infused "Cotton-Eye Joe" disaster (somebody fire the DJ), Mr. Rulebook threw a flag on the play for unsportsmanlike conduct, citing two or more partiers who were "engaging in prolonged, excessive, premeditated, or choreographed celebrations or demonstrations."

That's a 15-sip penalty.

After further review, Fantz in Your Pants is suspending the National Football League for roughing the dancer.

Sure, excessive celebration can delay a game. Verbal taunting and physical altercations are juvenile. But dancing? This silly infraction has not only spawned thousands of buzzkills, but it has undoubtedly cracked numerous plasma TVs (via beer can, remote, vocal frequency, bean dip, bong) and has likely prompted several divorces. We won't get into the dark side of the lunacy, this is a family column. But word on the street is, people have cried. (The street = my couch.)

Since football is taking a page out of the villain* book in "Footloose," we're going to put on our red shoes and dance the blues.


The art of dance evokes feelings that range from love to amusement, from mortification to embarrassment, from (what scientists call) pants-pissing to eye-rolling — and, of course, the beloved impromptu participation. Unless it's Kanye West and Kim Kardashian dry-humping a crotch rocket (or Miley Cyrus wet-humping a heavy metal ball), dancing brings out smiles, laughter and lighthearted jackassery.

My ire was provoked by the Sept. 11 game between New England and Arizona, when Cardinals Chandler Jones and D.J. Swearinger did the cutest little two-second jig after Jones recovered a fumble. The infraction pushed the Cards back 15 yards for "choreographed celebration."

They still scored a touchdown and I don't give a mini-mouse shit about either team, but the double-dude dance made me smile. (Not to be confused with Minne Mouse. She shits daisies. Not to be confused with Daisy Duck.)

Alongside the footchaste in our pal NFL Rulebook, we also have the introverts, the Amish and the cabaret license-less clubs. We don't have to bust a move, but if we want to, let's take heed from David Bowie, Fred Astaire and Lady Gaga.

This trivial NFL rule is going to force violators to punch-dance in frustration around a deserted warehouse. And we all know that if you don't give your heart wings, you'll never, never, never, ever fly. (Crickets?)

Ze damn Tanzverbot.

In conclusion, Roger Goodell and the NFL Rulebook should do body shots off elderly Republicans at a discotheque on Sunday and Monday nights. That way, grown men in tight pants can freely jig without being penalized — and then get pats on the ass by other grown men.

*John Lithgow or Dennis Quaid, depending upon whether you're into Hollywood's dry-well reboots.

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