Words like “amazing”, “unbelievable” and “phenomenal” have been used to describe what happened on Sunday when the New Orleans Saints won their first Super Bowl in team history. But let’s face it; there are no words to describe what we just witnessed and what we’re still feeling. This is a rare, indescribable moment that is so powerful, it’s worthy of it’s own, new word: Superidicunbelivamazingal.

Nah…not even that sums it up.

It didn’t matter whether us Saints fans witnessed the game from Sun Life Stadium, a sports bar on Bourbon, or the couch in our family living rooms, we shared the emotion of this victory together. It was a weird, gumbo of emotions: laughter, delirium, relief, elation, and redemption. There was even a little confusion. All our lives we’ve yearned for the Saints to win the Super Bowl. Now that it’s actually happened, what the hell do we do with ourselves?

I was fortunate enough to witness the victory from the sidelines of the stadium. I counted down with the rest of the fans and when the game clock hit zero, I jumped, screamed, fell on the floor, cried, screamed some more than nearly passed out in disbelief. Was this moment really happening? After all, the Saints didn’t have a chance in hell to beat the mighty Manning and his Indianapolis Colts, at least, that’s what the media had lead many to believe. In the flurry of emotions, I managed to remember to mentally flip the bird to ESPN and every pundit who said our victory was impossible. Even you, sweet Tony Dungy, were on the receiving end of my arsenic-laced “F you!” Or perhaps we have the media to thank for our victory. Perhaps they helped to motivate our team to give their all. On second thought, nope! The “F u” still stands.

This team and their coach alone deserve the credit for making history and giving a city with so much to lament over a reason to celebrate. Coach Payton, you have the nuts of a gorilla. Drew Brees, you have the poise of a legend. Tracy Porter, we hereby change your name to “clutch.” Garrett Hartley, you have a golden foot. Offensive line, you deserve a year’s supply of free lap dances from your favorite French Quarter strip club. And if those girls are too raggedy, Benson should cough up the money to fly in the strippers of your choice. The defense that turned things on in the second half deserves nothing less than streets named after them in New Orleans. (I for one would love to stay on Sharper Road.) For our wide receivers, tight ends, and running backs, I say we create holidays in your honor.

I hope this team understands what they’ve done for their fans and their city. How could they, though? Even we don’t understand it. I mean, when I saw Drew Brees in the traditional Disney World Super Bowl commercial, I let out this weird cheer/cry. I was “chrying.” The beauty of what’s happening is that we don’t need a word to pinpoint it. The Who Dat Nation, known so famously for butchering the English language, now has a language that is no longer spoken but felt.