Holy Taco is one of the funniest sites on the web. They’re always good for at least one horse-laugh and two guffaws a day. It’s been a while since they did a football comic, but this one was well worth the wait…

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Few things bring me more joy in life than eavesdropping on people on the Metro. Especially if those people are crazy drunks conversing with Canadian tourists about the looming threat of other ethnic groups taking over.

And so was the scene this morning when a 40ish black guy, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, had this slurred exchange in the row in front of me with a bunch of white Canucks (redundant?) in town to see the District.

Man: [Leaning across the aisle] Excuse me, ma’am, is that your child?

Mother: [Surprised] Huh? Y-Yeah.

Man: Can I offer you a word of advice?

Mother: W-what? Sure.

Man: You need to make sure he learns another language when he grows up. There are three times as many Spanish-speaking people in this city than blacks. They takin’ over.

Mother: Okay.

Man: Yeah. So, you need to make sure he knows Spanish, because he’s gonna have to deal with Spanish-speaking people.

Mother: Mmhmm.

Man: You don’t have to do this today, but soon, soon, go to a book store and go to the instruction section and you got to ask them “WHERE THE SPANISH-SPEAKING TAPES AT?”

Mother: I’ll do that.

Man: Good. That’s good. If he can learn Spanish, he’s in good shape. I never got the Spanish, so I can’t deal with them. Once they take over, he’s gonna have to. [Now sounding like he's talking through his teeth] And, and, once he gets the Spanish, you know what you got to do next?

Mother: What?

Man: Learn him some Chinese. They got 1.5 billion, million people over in China. IN ONE LAND! We as Americans gonna have to deal with them sooner or later. I know you saw the Olympics. They comin’ up in the world. Women over there, they’re only allowed to have one baby. That’s crazy, if you ask me.

This went on for another 10 minutes during which I nearly pissed myself about five times. The drunk guy took five minutes just to get the freaked out Canadian husband to admit where he was from. (The guy would only saw “Not here” until his defenses were clearly worn down by the drunk’s persistence — a tactic I’ve used on many an occasion).

Anyway, your Meast this week is Plaxico Burress’ 40-caliber Glock.

Some might say it’s inappropriate to give an award named in honor of Sean Taylor to a gun on the anniversary of Taylor’s death. We do so not to make light of Taylor’s murder, but to highlight the fact that it was not the implement used in the killing that it is to blame, but the intentions of its user. Guns are not the enemy. Sure, they can be used to kill innocent people, but they can also serve the purposes of good, like when they go off randomly into Plaxico Burress’ leg.

I assure you nurse, I am Harris Smith. Have been all my life. Unfortunately, I was struck by some stray gunfire in the course of my work as a collector of antiquities. These are the hazards that attend that line of work, I’m afraid. Some folks are awful sensitive about their 18th century chinoiserie cabinets. Especially if they’re located in an Applebee’s.

I meet the description of whom? Sorry, I don’t follow the tabloids much. My exposure to the outside world consists of watching a little NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, curling up and reading my Economist with some yerba mate. Maybe listen to a little All Things Considered if I’m in the mood for whimsy. I find sports mostly disagreeable, though an impromptu game of squash is a fine divertissement from the day’s labors. My friend, uh, Eeeeeeeee….Elmer. Elmer taught it to me.

Plaxico? No, I know no one by that name. That we are both towering lanky black men is an odd quirk of fate. Super Bowl ring? No, that’s my class ring. We were also the Giants. I agree it is nice for a high school ring, thank you. No, the Smith family would never give one of their own such a garish-sounding name. Plaxico. Ugh. It offends the tongue.

[Kid with a Giants hat dashes into the room]

“Hey mister. My dad says you jog through your routes when you’re not the primary target.”

Heh heh heh. Children. Such fanciful imaginations they have.

[Turns back to nurse, flashes kid the gun he has stowed in his waistband. Kid runs off.]

Yes, yes, run along, scamp. Get into more monkeyshines while you can.

Where were we?

Yes, the bullet in my leg.

Can you do something about that? It might adversely affect my career. In antiquities. Must be in top physical form to lug all that furniture around. In an Applebee’s.

When you have the rush-rush lifestyle of an NFL superstar, you find that you really have trouble taking time to enjoy the simple pleasures. Grabbing lunch with friends. Catching a double feature at the local theatre. Working on a house project. Strangling your wife with an extension cord while kneeing her in the ribs. It all gets lost in the mix.

That’s why during this two-week suspension, I’m really going to commit some time to savoring the beatdown I’m administering to the missus. I might even hire a decent videographer to capture it for us. It’ll be something we can treasure when we get old and want to look back. Presuming I haven’t killed her by then, that is.

Sure, the off-season is fun for marathon sessions of ritualized beatings until she’s lying trembling in the bathtub wrapped in the shower curtain and weeping like a child. But what about the five months a year when we have to settle for a quickie me-pushing-her-down-the-stairs before heading off to practice? A good marriage requires commitment.

This is really something I want to push on the team. Recently, I’ve told Eli I’d really like to pummel that cute wife of his. He’s not so sure. I tell you, that’s a warning sign right there. Can’t blame him, though. You really do get caught up in the grind. I can’t understand why so many retired NFL players are susceptible to depression when they have so much time to dedicate to beating their spouses to a pulpy mess.

So, thanks, Coach Coughlin. This suspension might be just the thing to save our marriage. But if you tell the fucking cops, they’ll find parts of you in each of your desk drawers.

Easily the worst part of the Super Bowl is the ceaseless stream of predictions that flood the airwaves and clog the intertubes. Everybody has an opinion this time of year, whether they are a professed expert or some guy in your office who’s breadth of knowledge comes from what they heard on the easy listening station. Nobody really cares about these predictions, but we recognize everyone’s right to offer up an entirely subjective final score. Well now the players themselves are joining in on the fun.

And then, as he entered the stadium and turned left toward the Giants locker room, Burress was asked for his prediction. Burress never hesitated, flatly stating “23-17.”

So there you have it, Giants win!

With that issue settled we sat down with Plaxico to hear some of his other insightful predictions. We’ll let him tell you what he thinks…

I like Dukakis by ten electoral votes.

Also, Patriots 31-21, just to be safe.

Thanks Plax!