One of the things I tried to do last week, which was basically a full week of vacation for me, was stay away from the computer. I didn’t even bring the MacBook Pro out of its bag in Colorado or Iowa, the two places I spent my holiday, because I can get vital information on my cell phone if need be and because, to be frank, I needed a break from the webs. Sometimes Daddy doesn’t want to stare at pixels. Sometimes Daddy just needs to drink alcohol and sleep in until mid-afternoon.

Because of this abstinence, I missed a few key things. Like, for example, the Plaxico Burress story. I had no idea Plexiglass shot himself in his leg until a friend told me at the bar on Saturday night. This never happens to me. I’m usually that guy that knows about all this nonsense before anyone else. Take away my computer, and I’m the last to hear about incredible stuff like this:

Burress went out to Latin Quarter with teammates Antonio Pierce and Ahmad Bradshaw.  He told security that he was carrying a gun for protection because he was carrying lots of cash and wearing expensive jewelry.  While “carrying a glass of wine,” the New York Daily News reported, “he began fumbling with his gun, police sources said. The weapon went off, firing a single bullet that tore through Burress’ right thigh.”  To be fair, as a wide receiver, Burress doesn’t like safeties.

Pretty stupid, but wait — it gets worse.  After Burress crumpled on the ground in pain, Pierce took the gun and hid it somewhere in New Jersey.  Meanwhile, Burress initially refused medical treatment because he didn’t want to get in trouble (his wife insisted on it later that night).  In fact, the NYPD didn’t learn about the incident until the next day, when Giants officials informed them.

It gets even more fun:

Per the New York Post, Giants receiver Plaxico Burress sought treatment for his accidental self-inflicted gunshot wound on Friday night under that name: “Harris Smith.” The Post also reports that Burress spent 90 minutes after the shooting making calls in an effort to find a hospital where the emergency care would be provided in a discreet manner.

He settled on New York-Cornell, where he gave the phony name and said the incident had occurred at an Applebee’s. Hospital workers recognized that the patient was actually Plaxico Burress, and the hospital failed to report the gunshot wound, despite the clear requirements of New York Penal Law Section 265.25.

Oh, sure, people. Laugh it up. Plaxico pulled a Cheddar Bob and then tried to check into the hospital with a fake name. Ha-ha. Whatever. What’s that saying? From the Bible? “Let he who has never discharged a weapon into his own thigh be the first to point and laugh at Plaxico Burress’ misfortune.” I think that’s the one.

Slightly lost in all this shooting of selves in thighs is the ongoing insanity of Stephon Marbury. Remember Marbury? He used to be really good at basketball, and now he can’t even get minutes on a team playing Nate Robinson and Danilo Gallinari. Mike D’Antoni hates him. He hates Mike D’Antoni. The latest: Steph’s letting loose with war analogies like a first-year student sportswriter:

“When things got bad and then worse, guys like Quentin Richardson say, `I don’t consider him a teammate. He let his teammates out to dry.’ He didn’t care I was his teammate when I was banished. They left me out for dead. It’s like we’re in a foxhole and I’m facing the other way. If I got shot in the head, at least you want to get shot by the enemy. I got shot in the head by my own guys in my foxhole. And they didn’t even give me an honorable death.”

Man. If I ever whine about Chicago sports sucking — the Bears being bad, the Bulls wasting Derrick Rose’s amazingness, and so on — please slap me in the face and remind of one undeniable truth: It could be worse. We could be in New York.