I’m told by The Joanster, who I see has embraced her inner Brooklyn by incorporating urban artistry into her vast repertoire (ah, brings back memories of seeing “Breakin’ II: Electric Boogaloo with my Mom at the Oceana Theater on Brighton Beach Avenue), that “nobody knows how to flog a dead horse better” than me.

Baby, I could flog live dinosaurs if I’m given just cause, and speaking of dinosaurs, how many of youse remember when Hairboy went on (and on…and on…and on) about New Jersey’s 127 miles of beautiful sandy beaches?

Well, gentle New Jerseyites…while all of New York’s pristine and sparkling beaches — including my beloved Coney Island — are slated to open this Saturday in time for the Memorial Day weekend, “munitions experts” are feverishly working to rid New Jersey’s 127-miles of sea and sand of “explosives” and “World War I-era military munitions that were pumped ashore during a beach-replenishment project last year.”

Peeps…did you read that closely? EXPLOSIVES! In the sand! Gee, that don’t sound like much fun.

I particularly delighted in this part: “People are banned from digging more than a foot into the sand and are not allowed to use metal detectors.”

Sorry kids…looks like you’re gonna hafta Wait Till Next Year (hmmm, I wonder where I’ve heard THAT before).

Oh, and in his comparative treaty about beaches, Hairboy admonishes to “Be watchful for floaters coming from Sheepshead Bay.” Ironic, that, since a reader just today inquired: “Elisson tells me you’re the expert on explaining Coney Island Whitefish. So, what’s the deal?”

Without going into too many deets, and trust me, I am no expert, here’s the dealie, my good man: Coney Island Whitefish are disgusting, revolting, abhorrent little floaters (the non-caca variety, iffen youse catch my drift) that have a tendency to find their way up the legs or down the groodies of ones swim trunks, or hanging over the bridge of ones nose when they come up for air after a dip in the waters.

And yes, the thought has occurred to me more than once that in order to bait unsuspecting and potential bennies and lure them to the promise of pristine Cape May beaches, only to make life utterly miserable for them once there, Jerseyites will embark upon covert operations to dump mass amounts of the secondhand little buggers into Brooklyn’s slightly less rank than Jersey’s waters.

Sabotage! I swear, I wouldn’t put anything past Jersey peeps.

So, to you Jerseyites planning to trek down to the beach this Memorial Day weekend, unless you want to have munitions experts also collect your detached extremities from a vast swath of polluted sand, I’d rethink those plans a little more carefully.

Mmmmmm-kay?

You know what I really love about The South, and I will venture to guess that our vacationing pal Jimbo feels much the same way: The peeps who live there. Plain and simple.

Southerners — at least all the ones I have met — are some of the gentlest, and most hospitable peeps around, some even going out of their way to concoct for you a refreshing, chilled, homemade glass of iced coffee (a Brooklyn staple), because it’s a thing that might not have been so readily available the Sonic or the rest of rural Tennessee. That meant a lot. In fact, best iced coffee I think I’ve ever had.

What particularly makes a weekend in The South so enjoyable is that time seems to move at a completely different pace. While the length of a New York Minute is about 1/20 the time of an actual minute, peeps in The South just seem to taaaaaaaake it niiiiiiiiiice and eaaaaaaaaassy. What’s the big rush anyways, right? Relaaaaaaaaax.

The short order meal, I’m almost certain, was conceived of in the Northeast, if not New York itself, to accommodate the bustling workforce in our vigorous metropolis, where peeps need to eat their egg and cheese on a Bialy “On-the-Go,” while dealing with the stuff like rush hour and alternate side of the street parking, which comprise the grind of daily life in The Big Apple.

And New Jerseyites? Well, they just stick a slab of greasy Taylor Ham (or whatever the farook that dreck, I mean Breakfast of Champions is called) on a roll and guzzle it down with some kawwwwfee in anticipation of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for three hours, whereas Southerners? They let their grits simmer on a low boil sometimes for as long as 45 minutes! Mmmmm-mmm. Just like Aunt Bea used to make. They ain’t in no rush.

And while the average Southern gentleman is only more than happy to sit down, crack open a Bud, and take all the time that is needed to enjoy a nice conversation (unless I am merely, and incorrectly, summoning a stereotype), your average New Jersey wiseguy, well…not so much. I’m guessing that’s where curt expressions such as “Ay,” “Yo!”, “Fuggheddaboudit,” and “Haya doin’?” — all showing little regard for lengthy answers — originated.

Almost makes you wonder what would happen should a nice farm boy — say Jerry Wiley, who divides his time between shoveling shit outta barns in Indiana, and doing God knows what Texas, for instance — were to walk into a bar in Jersey. It almost has the makings of an excellent joke: “A farm boy walks into a bar in Jersey…” In fact, why dontchouse just watch the video, instead:

Side-splitting, that.

Some of you may recall, Jimbo wrote a post a few weeks ago about a website he enjoyed called “YOUNGME – NOWME,” in which (in his own woids), “people submit a picture of themselves in their youth (often as small children) alongside a picture of themselves as they appear today, often striking the childhood same pose.” Clicking on the link, I noted in the comments on how I did not see a before and after photo of Hairboy, hisownself.

There’s a reason for that, which I’ll get to shortly, and it’s not because the camera hadn’t been invented yet (I’m sorry, but anyone who would say that, that’s just mean).

What many of you peeps do not know, probably because he’s such a private, non-boastful kinda guy, is that Hairboy, currently a lawyer, wasn’t always the big shot attorney youse know and love, and in his yoot had to do some pretty heinous things on the way up to be able to afford to put himself through law school. I gotta hand it to the guy, in spite of a very checkered past, he’s really made a name for himself.

While I wasn’t able to get my hands on any still photographs of Hairboy in his yoot, Wiseass Jooette Operatives (think: the Boris & Natasha to PRS Operative’s Rocky & Bullwinkle) was able to obtain raw video footage of a Geico™ “celebrity” commercial Hairboy was paid about $20 to make, back before he was more famously (in Jersey at least) known as “Jimbo” but went by the stagename “Sal Cucco.”

Note: Due to F-Bomb droppage, this video — which, for some reason, WP isn’t letting me embed — might possibly be NSFW, so watch with caution.

Undoubtedly, this brief stint on the telly-vision served as the future fodder that helped create such PRS classics as “The Deer and Da Joisey Guy.” I know many of you are wondering, though: “Yo, Wiseass Jooette…Jimbo keeps a mostly anonymous web presence, so most of us don’t even know what he farookin’ looks like. How are we gonna even recognize him?”

Well, dear PRS readers, wonder no more, for Wiseass Jooette Operatives also managed to procure a recent snapshot of the guy, and lemme tell youse, he was not impressed. Without further hesitation, I give you a candid photograph of the former Sal Cucco-turned-Jimbo…but nowadays everyone just calls him “Paulie Stindeens.”

Most impressive. Am I right? I tell ya, though…what I don’t understand is why someone with such Great Farookin’ Hair™ would want to hide this magnificent bouffant from the rest of the world.

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.

I see Hairboy (that dooshbag) conveniently left town in time to miss the floundering, last place New York Yankees get their sorry pinstriped azootiks handed to them this weekend by my also-not-doing-too-hot New York Metsies. Ay, it is what it is.

What some of youse may or may not know is that — when he was a young man, before history commenced being recorded (sometime in between the Paleo- & Neo-lithic eras) — Hairboy was a diehard Yankees fan, but I figure it’s easy for the mind of a kid, who grew up in Jersey, to be polluted, owing to the prevalence of Jersey pollution, but seriously, peeps.

I, as some of youse may be aware, come from a very long bloodline of crestfallen Brooklyn Trolley Dodger fans, and won’t even, as someone who lives north of the Mason-Dixon line, allow myself to be referred to as a “Yankee,” whereas Hairboy — a freakin’ Jersey guy (what, Jersey doesn’t have any teams of its own you can root for?) — can tick off the names, numbers and positions of the 1955 Yankees, the year they ate freakin’ DOIT and got their butts reamed by The Dodgers, thus winning Brooklyn its only World Championship (but back to 1955, in a mo’).

See, it’s like this. The Dodgers are to the Yankees what Brooklyn is to Jersey. Jersey may have 127-miles of “beautiful” sandy beaches — which, I hear, also comes with its own 127-mile-long parking lot! (rim shot) — but, Brooklyn’s one and only little Coney Island…ayyyyyy, ohhhhhh…our “Pearl by the Sea,” is the beach with heart.

And the Yankees may very well be the best team that money could buy (although this year, they might consider taking out a loan), but the ’55 Dodgers — with a lineup that included peeps like Campanella, Snyder, Hodges, Reese, Furillo, Oisk, Newk, Gilliam, Podres, and Labine — were the team with heart.

So, with those two inalienable facts constantly niggling at his tortured soul, it seems only natural that a little “Crosstown Rivalry” would materialize between Hairboy and myself, and as ugly a fact as it may be to Hairboy — that, on September 28, 1955, when Jackie Robinson stole home from Yankees catcher Yogi Berra, the Ump, rightly, called Jackie “SAFE!” — even Cousin Jack, his own flesh and blood, admits “A missed tag is bad, especially when they call the guy safe.”

But Hairboy — WHO WEARS GLASSES!!!, plus watched the game live, in gritty, eye-squinting black & white, on a TV back when TVs were 95 percent box and five percent screen — claims he visually witnessed, with his own two peepers, Yogi tag Jackie before Jackie touched the plate, and further insists he will go to his grave “knowing” that Jackie was out. Oh, go cry me a river. I hear the Raritan’s a little low.

People. This hysteria over losing one freaking World Series to Brooklyn’s Boys of Summer, and practically popping a squizzot arguing over a missed tag 53 years after it was called…I mean, I’m just sayin’ outta genuine concern for the guy…this is tantamount to Kos-like mentality.

Oh, geez, I almost forgot, the reason I brought all this up, speaking of crosstown rivalries: Did any of youse read in the Jersey Journal that “New York Yankees first baseman Jason Giambi said whenever he is in a prolonged hitting slump he wears a gold lamé, tiger-stripe thong under his uniform.” Am I making this shit up? Uh, no.

Obviously Yogi wasn’t wearing his golden lamé tiger-stripe thong the day he claims he tagged Jackie out. Ohhhhhhhhh!!

Well, there you have it, boys and girls. The Yankees are girlie-men, Jackie was safe, Jersey sucks, and my work here is far from being done.

Yes, Peeps, it is that time of the year when the Usual Suspects (a dozen of us this year) form up for the annual invasion of Southwest Florida for a week. I suspect that the guy in the local liquor has the date written on his calendar and his banker waiting for a deposit.

In addition to enjoying adult beverages and doing as little as possible, I plan to take every available opportunity to avoid watching or hearing any news, or, at least, keeping the mainstream mind poison to a bare minimum.

Play nice while I’m gone.

Tonight I will be assembling all the stuff that I will be bringing to Florida for the Usual Suspects’ invasion of the Sunshine State. Of course, this annual troop movement is no secret, so I was not terribly surprised to receive this video tidbit from Dave in Montana concerning a poor bastard who damned near got his farookin’ arm bitten off by an alligator while working on a goddamned golf course (in Florida, of course).

Knowing that such stories serve to propel my intestinal contents along at warp speed, Dave assured me that I could protect myself against such things by bringing along one of these.

Thanks, Dave. Feh!

Behold!

A farookin’ ALLIGATOR drinking my beloved Chocolate Vodka (well frozen too!).

You can thank the Wiseass Jooette for gifting me with the hideous alligator. It’s about as ugly as a bag of assholes. When she informed me that it actually was designed to hold a bottle, I figured I just had to share.

Photo creds to the Stardust Shrink, who insisted that this was, indeed, a serious woik of art. There’s no accouting for taste.

As it happens, my friend Eric is cooling his heels in Scotland with his bride, no doubt drinking some excellent single malt, while I am sitting in front of this farookin’ computer. Anyway, before he left he asked if I would pop over to his site to stir up the pot a bit.

So, seeing as how I had nothing much to say here tonight, I decided to leave my brain dribbles over there.

Happy Mother’s Day

R.I.P., Margaret.