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.