In poking around whitehouse.gov just now and finding tomatoes in November, it was sort of funny to see the chardonnay served at the Berlusconi dinner: Ponzi. What did the Chimp’s sommelier know about Madoff, and when did he know it?

Then again, the White House has a pretty dark curtain around it when it comes to the care and feeding of its inhabitants. The new National Geographic doesn’t do much to pull that thing back, but I did absorb the chilling fact that the chef will sometimes “stop in at a local butcher on the way to work and pick up a last-minute chop for the President’s dinner.” Might be safer to raise a few heritage hogs out on the lawn the devout want turned into a victory garden. And cheaper: Who knew “the President is billed for all food consumed by his family and his personal guests”? Or that the sticker price shock kicks in because “you’ve got world-class chefs — the garnishes they put on foods, the way they dress them up, it’s like eating in a restaurant”? The real lipstick on the pig must have been the Per Se-style sevruga caviar on the Chimp’s hot dogs.

If only an Archway cookie had been hurled at the Chimp. Judging by the mega-orders for Turkish shoes, the company could have come right back from oblivion.

I’m giving up on my apple cart — now I think Chimp piñatas could knock us right out of recession. Fill them with suckers, sell them with shoes.

As my consort described it, I went from zero to profanity on Thanksgiving morning after waking to hear the Chimp on NPR with the toughest of interviewers, the female spawn of his hateful mother’s frighteningly withered loins. And of course she didn’t ask the obvious question, how a war criminal could have the gall to “pardon” a turkey. If there were any justice in the world, his wriggling fanny and gushing neck would have been the ones exposed to all the world in the Palin/“Fargo” photo op.

And the designated Chimpette certainly put on a red-rum show with what All Hat No Cattle dubbed “Deliverance Meets Fargo” at the enviable turkey farm. I hope her motivation was not simply to generate more coverage. Otherwise she’s going to be pulling a Sharon Stone next. And that vagina is a clown car. (I can say that as the middle child of seven catapulted out in 8 1/2 years.) If you think I’m mean, consider how another blogger described the great dim hope: Cheney with smaller breasts. So much for moose chili. . . .

Nice of the Chimp to start squandering all the high-priced wine before people who might actually appreciate it take over the cellar. I would like to have been a roach on the wall, though, when they ruined his dinner by handing him the menu listing the eggplant and fennel fondue with chanterelle jus. All that freedom food when he really only understands hot dogs.

I see by my countdown clock that the Chimp has just over two months left to create a legacy beyond torture, war crimes, Constitution-shredding, pretzel-choking, incompetence, new Depression and general destructive idiocy. We need a drinking song to get us through every day till January 20: “Sixty-nine bottles of wine on the wall. . . .”

Call this the luck of the drip — I slept right through the most momentous evening in my lifetime, to the point where I could barely rouse myself for a terrorist fist bump with the nurse taking vital signs just before midnight who announced: “He won! He won! All the residents are out in the street celebrating!” To compensate I’ve been obsessing on the big issues, like all the horseshit stories speculating on which celebrity chef is likely to be hired to cook for the classy family evicting the Chimp and his Stepford enabler. (Can you say banquet boss?) And to think it was only eight years ago that my then-employer had to agonize over stories on whether the booze in sauces and stews cooked off enough to be safe for the untreated alcoholic who somehow wound up president. (All hail Panchito!) It’s morning in America when wine is spotted in a candidate’s kitchen. Even Kendall-Jackson is one giant leap beyond near-beer.

Happy thought for the week: Eighty-four more bananas at breakfast and the Chimp goes back to his own private Wasilla.