Chad, this is no time to tango

I hate dancing, I really do. I try my hardest to avoid it but lately, I haven’t been able to…. I hate dancing, I really do. I try my hardest to avoid it but lately, I haven’t been able to. Somehow, it has broken into something I love, something I need and something in which it doesn’t belong – football.

I was sitting with my roommate, flipping back and forth between games when it first hit me. I saw a score update from the Bengals game, so I quickly turned the channel to see what happened.

It was a decent touchdown. Chad Johnson made the catch. But it was his end zone celebration afterwards that caught my attention. And man, did it make me mad.

“I swear if I see one more of these clowns dancing around the end zone, I’m going to put my head through this wall,” I said.

Thirty minutes, $150 worth of damage and a colossal headache later, I decided to turn football off for the rest of the night.

Really, in what other sport do we see this? Aside from Barry Bonds’ 45-minute stroll around the bases after every home run and Jonathan Papelbon’s Irish Jig (which is actually quite impressive), baseball doesn’t have this problem.

The fights in hockey aren’t something to be proud of, but they’ve been part of the game since the beginning, and when a goalie makes a key save, he doesn’t pull his cell phone out from behind the net to make a call.

OK, then there’s the NBA. Well, unless crying and throwing sucker-punches is considered a celebration, those guys aren’t too bad either.

Call me a grouch or a loser. Call me whatever you want. But touchdown celebrations have gotten out of control. They’ve reached a level of unprofessionalism and disgrace that would make Mike Tyson cringe.

Yes, entertainment is important, and as fans, we want to be entertained. But these guys need to realize that a good game is entertaining enough.

The one-handed touchdown grab is enough, Chad. We don’t need to see you give the ball CPR.

And flapping your arms like a demented bird, T.O.? That doesn’t accomplish anything but, well, making you look like a demented bird.

It’s embarrassing for teams, organizations, the players around them and the league. Why do you think Randy Moss toned down his end-zone dances when he went to New England? Moss knows he’s now part of a classy organization. He knows doing the worm across the end zone just makes his team look foolish, and he knows Bill Belichick’s camera will catch it.

Maybe I’m wrong about this, but I’ve never thought professionals were supposed to dance around after doing something right. I’ve never seen my dad moonwalk through our kitchen after a good conference call. I’ve never seen my editor do the Macarena after finding a bunch of comma mistakes in my column and I’ve definitely never seen my landlord’s secretary pull a Sharpie out of her right shoe to sign that stapler she seems to use so well.

Listen, I’m all about having fun, playing hard and celebrating with teammates. There’s nothing better to me than the classic Brett Favre fist pump, jumping into a pile or even spiking the ball. Intensity is part of the game. And celebration is, too.

But these players, despite being paid overwhelming amounts of money, still continue to put themselves before the team and go too far.

So I’ve spent countless hours trying to figure out how I can get past the celebrating, watch a game and just be happy again.

I thought about lining my room with foam padding, but that’s just too expensive. Instead, I’m learning to control my frustrations and hold it all in. But with all these celebrations, I can hear the timer ticking in my head. And seriously, I don’t want it to blow.

So please, guys, take it easy on the choreography. Fire Joey Fatone, turn off “You Got Served” and focus on the game.

You can still entertain us – you’ll do that simply by playing. Just don’t make me throw my remote control through the TV. Don’t force people to lose respect for you. And more importantly, don’t bring my headache back. If you do, my living room walls and my head will be very upset.

So I said it, I finally got it out. Until Sunday afternoon, I’ll live in peace. Now please excuse me while I crypt-walk down the stairs