I just realized my microwave popcorn is actually popping out Morse code — in Russian.

If I’m translating correctly and, admittedly, my decoding skills are rusty, Pootie wants me to drop some d-CON into someone’s latte. Or maybe the word is DEFCON. I may have missed a dot or a dash. Probably no big deal. Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.

I’ve become suspicious of all my appliances — even the small ones. For instance, why does my can opener rotate cans only to the right? Is it a political statement?

I suppose otherwise the people at Sunbeam would be accused of being Leftists. But, at least, we would all get our can openers for free.

Shouldn’t that be part of the social contract in America? A secure food supply … education … health care …. a dignified retirement … free can openers … and an invigorating, unnecessary war every few years, to keep poor starving, defenseless defense contractors in business?

Maybe I’m reading too much into this.

Still, when the president of the United States accuses the president of Kenya of wiretapping and Kellyanne Conway reveals that my microwave is a spy, you have to take notice.

This explains why, no matter how I set the timer, the microwave cooks everything for 19 minutes and 84 seconds. It’s killing my pot pies. As is Al Carlson.

For a long time, I thought it was me, that I was just paranoid. But the other night, I sneezed and my television said, “Gesundheit.” Which, as you know, is Russian.

I rest my case. Actually, I can’t rest my case. I’m barely 250 words into this morass and my “editor” won’t cut me any slack until I hit 600. (“It rubs the lotion on its skin.”)

And what about cell phones. Talk about a racket. We pay nosebleed fees, just so our phones can track our location. When they’re not spontaneously combusting. You know what that thing in your pocket is? (No, the other pocket. But I’m glad you’re having safe sex.) It’s evidence.

You might as well stick a microchip into my butt cheek, slap a spiked collar on my neck and call me Fido. Not that after a few beers I wouldn’t be open to that, anyway, baby.

Seriously, they should have stopped me at 250 words. I see nothing good coming out of this freedom of the press thing. Thank god, Betsy DeVos is stamping out education. In 50 years, this column will be as accessible as Morse code. Soon, I’ll need an illustrator.

Fifty years. Who am I kidding? The nuclear football is at Mar-a-Lago, in the hands of the hat-check girl. We’re doomed. I rarely hand out financial advice, but I’m solid on this one. If I were you, I’d max out the credit cards and drink like you’re Irish every day to see which lasts longer, the country or your liver.

Some people call me a cynic. A fatalist. You would be, too. Yesterday, my Roomba pulled a knife on me, and I suffered a near fatal-ankle stabbing. My car auto-started and tried to run over me. That’s still not legal, even in North Dakota. Give us time. Rome wasn’t burned in a day.

Then there’s my friend, David Rosenblum. “That ain’t nothing,” he said. ”I ate a bagel last week and today the CIA sent me the results of my colonoscopy.”

I’m not sure all this government surveillance is really necessary. After all, we already voluntarily confess everything on Facebook. In that regard, we’re all Cyber-Catholics and Mark Zuckerberg is the pope. Habemus papam! (More Russian.)

Waterboarding is so passe. All we have to do is plop the prisoner down in front of Facebook with a case of Red Bull. We’ll know everything by Thursday.

I’ll post a close up of my taco salad later. And my third selfie of the day. I am so hot. Blistering hot. My lips look like that because I just licked a lemon.

Look at my puppy. And if I had grandchildren, they would be adorable.