Not every city can boast that their streets were shut-down due to the uproar of crowds marching through the streets, puffing their chests with pride to the screaming chant: “NO ONE LIKES US, WE DON’T CARE!”

Not every city can claim a celebrity dedicating a hilarious montage to their mutually homegrown team in anticipation of LII.

Not every city can climb atop garbage trucks, five-story buildings, and Temple Law billboards with nary a complaint from law enforcement officials down below.

Not every city can get inspired by a speech from a football player flamboyantly dressed in Mummer pageantry.

But we can.

Literal and figurative fireworks of green glee sprung from the rumbling belly of Philadelphia on the night of February 4th, 2018, a belly that had been starving for a Super Bowl title for the past five decades.

Thousands of people, of all ages and races, ran out to Broad, Market, and South, high-fiving each other and getting high together, thriving in the mayhem and the merrymaking.

Crude chants hailed Nick Foles’ impressive… stature, while others likely sent Gisele Bϋndchen to file for divorce from her shamed Patriots beau.

Philadelphia, after years of bad attitude, has never been in a better mood. Angst and cynicism were left at home, and joyful zaniness came to the streets.

Some fans misbehaved, unfortunately choosing vandalism and littering as appropriate outlets for emotional expression, but most ensured that the fun was safe and inviting for all. Underdogs and actual dogs found their happy place together.

Most didn’t get back in bed until 5 AM, and almost all never made it into their cubicle the next morning.

No harm, no foul: their bosses probably called in sick, too.

The official parade later on that Thursday, February 8th, further extended the winner’s high that turned even the most blasé about sports into an Eagles addict.

Victory is a potent drug.

Schools were closed, offices were shut-down, and the City was engulfed by chaos and a bitter chill that, in no way, thawed the spirit of the parade-goers that morning.

SEPTA could not keep up with the demands of phillyphoria, taverns were quickly running out of the free beers they had initially promised, and on average, people were left standing outside for five hours before the first fleet of police horses opened the parade with a gallant trot.

Philly kept on smiling, often cracking laughs at the expense of others who were unsuccessfully climbing greased poles or who were weakly tossing a Nerf football around.

When the green buses with Eagles Cheerleaders, the mascot, confetti cannons, and the victors zoomed by, a wave of smartphones, GoPros, and selfie sticks shot up to the sky. No one was willing to forget history.

And, not to sound like a heathen or anything, but Philadelphia had evidently chosen football over God: The Pope wasn't able to muster even half of this rambunctious crowd when he stopped by the City in 2015 for the World Meeting of Families.

To be fair, the Papal Visit was heavily secured and fearfully cautious of terror, whereas the Eagles Super Bowl Parade was almost too giddy to be bothered with security measures. Maybe this ignorant bliss was precisely what we needed, and luckily, nobody was subjected to violence.

Celebrations continued in restaurants and bars on Walnut Street later that Thursday evening, concluding with sporadic fireworks and impromptu renditions of the Eagles fight song.

Pennant flags are still triumphantly waving in the wind, green lights are still twinkling from windowpanes, and Philadelphians can still be spotted out-and-about with Eagles windbreakers and beanies on.

Something tells me this winner's high isn't going into withdrawal anytime soon.