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.