Some of you will have already noticed that the original Wall of Paul slogan, "Paul Tatara on Movies (and so forth)," now reads "Paul Tatara on Pop Culture (and so forth)." In the winter of 2007, when we launched this site, I knew I'd initially draw readers who were familiar with my CNN and Goodauthority movie coverage, so I mostly wrote about movies. But I live in the same world everyone else inhabits, and I contemplate a lot of things besides motion pictures. It was my goal, then, to eventually examine music, sports, politics, religion, firecrackers, action figures, babies, fast food, heroes, hypocrites, air conditioning, parades, cream puffs, and a slew other topics that have come to shape my consciousness. Thus the altered, and far more accurate, slogan.

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The Thigh Bone's Connected to the Dumb Bone

Dec. 2, 2008

Enter with me, if you will, the time machine, as we journey back to Feb. 3rd of this year, to Glendale, AZ— the site of Super Bowl XLII.

Who could ever forget that night? The New York Giants, who just a few months before weren’t given a chance in hell of winning the Super Bowl, slapped the previously-unbeaten New England Patriots around for nearly four quarters, then captured the NFL title with 32 seconds left to play. At that point, Giants quarterback Eli Manning hit one of his favorite targets, wide receiver Plaxico Burress, in the corner of the end zone for the go-ahead score, thus causing the island of Manhattan to vibrate, levitate, and temporarily float like a massive concrete hovercraft over New Jersey.

***

Now, let’s travel to this past Saturday night, when that very same Plaxico Burress walked into a Manhattan nightclub and accidentally shot himself in the thigh with a non-registered handgun.

Beyond causing what can quite cleverly be called “duress to the thigh of Burress,” the shooting also puts Mr. Super Bowl Hero in line for a quick trip to the pokey, since getting caught carrying an unlicensed handgun in New York City means a minimum, mandatory sentence of 3 ½ years. The most you can get is 15 years, even if you don’t fucking shoot yourself in your own thigh with the gun.

There are several ways that Burress could have stopped this unfortunate incident from taking place. Here’s a few that I can think of, just off the top of my head:

1. Don’t stick a .40-caliber Glock in the waist band of your sweat pants, since it tends to slide down your leg, and you have to grab for it.

2. Secure the safety when you put a .40-caliber Glock in the waist band of your sweat pants.

3. Don’t put a round in the chamber when you stick a .40-caliber Glock in the waist band of your sweat pants.

4. Appear in public in a bling-free state, so you don’t feel compelled to protect yourself from the theft of the bling, which is Burress’ explanation for why he had the gun on him in the first place.

5. Stay at home and play with your Xbox. Idiot.

That’s right. At the risk of sounding uncharitable, I’d like to volunteer right here and now that Plaxico Burress is an idiot. The stupid kind of idiot that we hear so much about, except that they don’t normally catch the winning pass in the Super Bowl. Burress is a dope and a moron. A fool. He’s not, shall we say, a brightly-lit bulb. He is a dumb-ass.

I recognize that Burress is an actual human being, and that he has a young daughter at home. But he sure didn’t seem all that concerned about the actual human beings who surrounded him when he brought a live handgun into a crowded nightclub. And let's face it, he didn't do it because he feared for his jewelry. He did it because he wanted to impress other idiots who think the only way a grown man can prove his worth is by intimidating people for no apparent reason. New York is thick with them.

It's also worth mentioning that he helped screw up the lives of the starry-eyed Giants fans who noticed he had the gun, but let him enter the club anyway. That’s not to mention the hospital workers who, dazzled as they were by the presence of greatness, failed to comply with state law, and didn’t report the shooting. Several of them knew full-well who Burress was, even though he signed in under the name “Harris Smith.” He also told them - get this - that he was shot at an Applebee’s.

There goes that commercial.

The people who accommodated Burress in his little adventure are responsible for their own actions, of course. But they would never have been victimized by their innate silliness if Burress hadn’t decided to prove he’s a Major Bad Ass, as opposed to a very lucky young man who makes millions of dollars catching a leather ball, then running with it for several yards before someone knocks him down. Really— that’s what he does for a living. And you can bet the constant ass-kissing he receives from the general population is the key reason he thought he could get away with such a dangerously adolescent form of posturing.

Burress, who’s been creating his own rules of conduct and causing headaches for Giants management all year long (after successfully holding out for a bigger contract at the beginning of the season), appears to have played his last game for the team. He also won’t be getting the $28-million that remains on his now null-and-void contract. That's a lotta bling.

The NFL, for its part, hasn’t decided what to do with him yet, although a special banner-lifting ceremony appears to be out of the question. In the meantime, the Giants seem as poised as any team in the league to waltz into the Super Bowl again, with or without Burress. So I hope they let him watch it in the rec-room at jail.

When asked earlier today how his client is doing, Burress’ defense lawyer, Benjamin Brafman answered, “He is standing tall. He is a mature adult.”

Apparently, he's come a long way since Saturday night.

***

By the time I was done writing this, the news wires were already suggesting that there might be some kind of plea bargain available for poor Plaxico. But just this morning, Mayor Bloomberg, the killjoy, stated that he wants to throw the book at Burress, fire the people who lied at the hospital, and revoke the liquor license of the nightclub.

Either way, when the front page of “The Daily News” looks like this, and you’re the guy in handcuffs, it’s safe to assume you’re in some kind of trouble: