MLB’s cracked down on druggy athletes. No more PDAs into arms, legs or whatever limp parts guys want jacked up.

Truth is, besides nose jobs, Lap-Band surgery, colored eye lenses and detachable ponytails, we’ve become a fakeola society.

Kids cheating on school exams? Understandable. Check their birth.

Old-fashioned was a Him onto/into/upto (depending on their degree of agility) a Her. Now? Please.

Today it’s a fake beard, glued moustache, a sex store and buying some nice pleasurable toy. If that doesn’t generate twins, forego the human injectable tool and go straight for artificial insemination.

The doctor’s your matchmaker.

Planning my country-style kitchen renovation, a contractor suggested an oak floor. But, “My tiny dogs occasionally christen a floor and, with cracks between, wood’s porous.”

Said the contractor: “Who said real wood? Wide planks. Simulated stuff. Looks exactly like the real thing.”

Our 21st-century politicians aren’t the main phonies. Only Berlusconi, DSK, Hevesi, Spitzer? No. Think Lance Armstrong, Alex Rodriguez, wood floors — everything’s a sham.

Got a pet cat? Clone the thing.

Favorite relative? Freeze him.

Care to help someone unfortunate? Donate your eyes or liver.

Take the kitchen. Milk. Soy milk. Skim milk. 2% milk. Fake milk. Half-and-half. Lactaid. Coffee-mate. Powdered milk. Crema, Cremora or whatever’s that grated chalk uploaded into your cuppa.

And the coffee? Powdered. Instant. Decaf. Postum. Sanka. With cinnamon. With Vanilla. Herbal. Cappucino. Gluten free.

Then sweetened with little colorful yellow, blue, pink packets.

Cooking? There’s salt-free salt. Olestra. Low-sodium salt. Nu-Salt. Pretend salt the Dead Sea was glad to get rid of. Rock salt.

Some high-blood-pressure patient is renaming Utah’s Fake Lake City. There’s a thing called Himalayan Red Mountain Sea Salt — and whatthehell that is, no clue.

Unless Martha Stewart comes out with a line, I’m not big with Himalayan entrees. China manufactures substitute salt. Guangzhou stocks 5,000 pounds ready to dump on NYC pushcarts that peddle pretzels.

I watched a vegan saw through a vegetarian-style rump roast made of alfalfa.

The rump stayed in one piece. Her long-glued-on middle nail didn’t. Landing in a side of eggplant, nobody might’ve noticed except it clashed with the red ketchup. The nail was frosted pink.

We got robot vacuums, self-cleaning ovens, foreign repairmen. We got companies that sell pretend food like: processed waffles, pancakes, fruit loops, cereals. Faux breakfast drinks.

Pastries, cakes, tarts, muffins, breads, rolls that never even laid near a blade of wheat. Blobs of cheese with skinnythinny crackers you can see through. “Just Dough It!” — an operation in (ready?) Broken Arrow, Okla. — also hustles fakola popcorn, some form of ice cream and bagels.

I ask you, Sunday morning with real cream cheese and lox, what’s more enticing than a pretend bagel from a Navajo ghetto?

There’s Diet Coke. There’s pretend beer. There’s nonalcoholic wine.

You can open your counterfeit Vuitton pocketbook, remove knockoff Chanel dark glasses to sip your diet bottled flavored water while bargaining for a plated gold bracelet, plastic diamond wedding band or false silver brooch.

Then head for Puerto Vallarta to get a medication of your choice without a prescription.

Wait. How about soy burgers. Olio instead of butter.

That Reddi-wip thing that passes for whipped cream.

Concentrated breakfast juice.

Concentrated with what? Chemically enhanced chickens and eggs.

Fertilized vegetables.

Shrimp that look like they’ve been on steroids.

Fie on cigarettes. That’s bad bad bad. No no no.

Addicts switched to electronic cigarettes. Now that’s bad bad bad. No no no.

So, back to the puffy fluffy boob overflowing the itsy bitsy undergarment.

Were a well endowed madam inside a hammock-sized brassiere, her allness would be tucked safely away. But . . . silicone enhanced . . . padded bra . . . control pantyhose . . . Spanx . . . painted hosiery-colored legs . . . that’s America.