T — New England blogger extraordinaire, and friend to both Hairboy (a.k.a. Jimbo) and the Wiseass Jooette — has an awesome post up at her site, which examines her drinking profile, her “alcohoroscope,” if you will. A snippet from T’s alcohoroscope:

“They can amaze you by conversing with finesse and allusion, then doing something to belie an extremely advanced state of intoxication, like puking in your shoe.”

*blink*

Anyhow, since Hairboy is giving his liver a bit of a workout in the Sunshine State (oh, boo farookin’ hoo, if you’re sucking wind tomorrow morning, dooshbag), I thought it would be oodles of fun to examine his alcohoroscope and, perhaps if there’s time, we can also take a look at mine and maybe even compare and contrast a little bit (What? Don’t tell me you were expecting a treatise on the Jersey Political Swamp while he’s away. Surely, youse dooshbags jest.)

Well, I’m seeing some serious FAIL! right off the bat. I don’t know much about Hugh Jackman, Sting, or Martina Navratilova (aside from the vocations they are obviously famous for), but I gotta be honest, I’m not so sure I feel entirely comfortable with Hairboy — a genuine Libra — having anything in common with “drinking buddies” Jimmah Kottah and Janeane Garofalo.

Let’s be honest, people…that’s just skuzzy, right there. And as for a Libra’s trademark cocktails:

Aesthetic Libras like pretty, pouffy drinks like a pink lady or a brandy Alexander. That’s the influence of Venus, their ruling planet, which also gives them a horror of crudely named potions like Sex on the Beach. They’re fine with “normal” guzzles like apple martinis, but every Libra secretly just wants Champagne, and lots of it.

Don’t tell me. He also lifts his pinky up when he takes delicate sips of Cosmopolitans or Bay Breezes at the Post on Sunday afternoons. I could just see fellow Usual Suspect, Paulie, drinking a manly “Bud” nearby, and recoiling from the Post’s “Bar Chairman” in horror. Personally, I think he uses the whole chocolate vodka thing as a diversionary tactic.

And then there’s the whole “Libras are notoriously lacking in self-control…which can get them into all sorts of trouble” thing. What kinds of trouble, you may ask. Well…I hate to bring up the past, but it seems our Jersey Laddie had a few too many Adult Beverages one night and confused the Laddie Loo with the Lassie Loo. Oh, I understand alright. We all make mistakes from time to time. No big whoop.

Obviously, our Hairboy has not been dealt an easy hand in life.

Myself, OTOH…I’m a Sag, tried and true, and so far it’s been smooth sailing for me:

Tactlessness aside (Ed. Whaddaya tawwwkin’ about, tactlessness??), Sagittarius is just plain fun to drink with. This is a sign of serious partying (what else would you expect from the sign of Sinatra, Keith Richards, the Bush twins and Anna Nicole Smith?). They’re the people who chat up everyone in the room, then persuade the entire crowd to travel somewhere else — like a nightclub, or a playground, or Cancun. Good-natured hijinks are sure to ensue.

Those are some punches I could definitely roll with. And “given how much Sag can put away and still stay vertical,” while I’m personally more partial to Black Russians, Chocolate Martinis, and “Vile Green Shit,” I’m downtown with giving Moscow Mules and Singapore Slings a shot (or five).

Now then, let’s compare and review, shall we?

The Wiseass Jooette: Good peeps from Brooklyn who is fun to drink with and says, “Hey, let’s all go to Cancun!,” accomplishable depending, of course, upon whether she can stay vertical long enough, or will instead require the more sober and able-bodied assistance of pal, T.

Hairboy: A dooshbag from Jersey who drinks froo-froo cocktails in girlie martini glasses with Jimmah Kottah, and then uses the lavatory with the clearly-indicated word “LASSIE” on the door. Illuminating information, that.

By the way, because I should make it a rule never to trust guys who fuss so over their hair, don’t be at all surprised when he comes back if this post gets deleted and I am never heard from again. All I ask is that a team be ready, with shovels and pickaxes, to extricate my possibly dismembered remains from beneath the bowels of the Meadowlands.

Additional H/T to LeeAnn, the Baby Wolf herownself, who, were the Queen lead singer actually alive, woulda had a chance to get blotto with Freddie Mercury.