If the remains of Jimmy Hoffa are ever found, ending a nearly half-century search for the notorious union boss, I know just where they will be:

My office.

That’s because I am in the middle of one of the biggest cleanups of all time, one that not only rivals the most ambitious urban renewal projects ever undertaken, but could be the basis for an episode of “Unsolved Mysteries.”

I am not a scientist, which is a blessing to humanity because I almost blew up the chemistry lab in high school, but I do know about the law of physics, which states that any space — except the one between my ears — will be filled.

That perfectly describes my office, where I routinely contribute to the decline of the newspaper industry by writing drivel like this.

I am cleaning up on orders from my wife, Sue, who is neater and more organized than I am. If we ever won the lottery, we would never collect the money because either Sue would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I would put it in my office for safekeeping and never find it.

In fact, it’s even worse than the bedroom once used by our younger daughter. One summer, when she was home from college, Sue described the room as a “disaster area.”

Because I think differently than most people, fortunately for most people, I decided to see if I could have the bedroom officially declared a disaster area so we would be eligible for state or federal funds to clean it up.

I called the New York Disaster Preparedness Commission, described the hellhole and was told that it was too big a job for the state and that I would have to go federal.

So — this is absolutely true — I called the White House to see if President George W. Bush, who was in office at the time and has two daughters about the same ages as my two daughters, had ever declared his kids’ rooms disaster areas.

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