Enough with these cockamamie cicadas.

NYC isn’t crowded enough? We’re jammed into condo and coop cubicles. Now we have to share it with cicadas? Already there’s no room to park. The streets are alive with the sound of tourists. At Starbucks, the lines extend to Lithuania.

New York City lists 99 moving violations: Idling, blocking the box, running a red light, incorrect windshield stickers, jaywalking, etc. But the swarming cicadas, like pedicabs, squeeze everywhere.

Despite these creatures looking alike, biologists explain the decided differences. For instance, they say, you can differentiate between the male and female. The female doesn’t signal when she turns.

This town’s got all kinds of creatures. Roaches. Rats. Flies. Hawks. Pigeons. Politicians. Pets. And new neighbors are these locusts? By Tuesday, Bloomberg will order bike racks for them. He’s only grateful they don’t smoke.

Scientists tell us the things are in heat. Creeping out of the ground to mate and make romance. Nice. I know all the world loves a lover — except her husband and people like me who don’t appreciate these crawlies. Listen, I don’t even like house guests.

I know birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it — but billions of singing excited cicadas? We just replanted fresh spring flowers on the terrace, and these squishy things, while not contributing to my maintenance, are living with me. An entire village of them made a salad out of my rhododendrons. One pot of lilacs appears to be City Hall.

And they’re noisy. Mating only once every 17 years, they sing. I tell you the truth, given the same schedule many a wife would also break into song.

Real life honeymooners don’t even squawk, squeak, and chirp this loud. Specialists who speak Castilian Insect translated their dialogue. They heard the girl bug trill to the boy bug: “You look great!”. . . “Sure, I’m having a wonderful affair.” . . . “Really? Who’s the caterer?”

And what are their mating rules? If the he doesn’t trust the she, he does what? Puts a combination lock on her wings?

The burning question we must ask ourselves today is: Do cicadas cheat? Say Sam Cicada finds Mrs. Sam nuzzling some caterpillar and squeaks, “What’re you doing?” Would she answer: “Listen, don’t get your larvae in an uproar, I’m just getting a second opinion.”

Do lady cicadas laugh during sex? I mean, no matter what they’re reading? Do senior citizen male cicadas now take all night to do what they once would do all night?

Also, how do they handle retirement? What do they do for 17 years they’re laying around doing nothing, which is the same thing my aunt’s been asking my uncle?

’Tis the season to pack up all your cares and woes, shove this cicadapocalypse and go on vacation. Buy a car, stick your kids in the back seat — and take a cruise.

Try the French Riviera — Cannes, Antibes, Monte Carlo. Take a shot at Fiji, which is 80 degrees all year round. San Francisco has beaches. Martha’s Vineyard has fishing. Vegas has craps. Montreal has history. Maui has five-star hotels. Connecticut has sand, sea, surf, sun and sailing. Also Hartford. I don’t know what Bulgaria’s got — but try it. Or shove it.

Go to Linz, Austria, for the opera. Panama has the Canal plus Frank Gehry’s new museum. Try Ireland. Have a tumbler of mead at a castle. See Rembrandts in Amsterdam. Africa — safari. Iceland — the Northern Lights. If you don’t mind a year in a plane, Australia’s outback. Listen, there’s always Montclair, NJ.

Japan? Where everyone’s wearing American T-shirts. Paris, where they don’t like anybody including us but so what, they dress nice. Spain, great food. Istanbul, great shopping. Italy, great guys. Drive to The Bronx. Visit the Grand Concourse. How about Texas? Open a charge account in Neiman Marcus. For some reason, Antartica, which might be where Jay Leno’s going to get a show.

Or get an apartment. Also a contractor, a designer, a decorator and, with a few bucks left — an exterminator.

Welcome to New York, greatest city on Earth. Even those illegal immigrants the cicadas want to be here.