The Friars. Once the George Burns, Joan Rivers, Milton Berle, Groucho Marx pit stop. For 115 years, this East 55th Street clubhouse heard more BS than is now in the Senate. But while DC’s playpen keeps burping along, NYC’s has gone kaput.

Forget “A funny thing happened to me on the way to the club.” Now nothing funny’s happening to them on the way to anywhere. The joint’s gone quiet. The once-famous roasts aren’t. Looking to book it for a bar mitzvah, forget it.

It had money miseries. Investigations. Suspected misspending. Shrunken membership. Tough to replace hanger-outers like Frank Sinatra, Henny Youngman, Don Rickles. They’re gone. Income’s gone. The sheen’s gone.

Gang Land know-it-all Jerry Capeci’s Web site reported bad boys — Gambinos, Gottis, Genoveses — lately made it their candy store. The opening line became: “A wiseguy happened to me on the way to the lineup.” And the club stayed open only three days a week for lunch.

Now, newly, suddenly closed. Shut tighter than a Kardashian butt-lift. Rumors were a wastepaper bin blew up. Gas leak. Explosion. The following is the Friars Club Board of Governors Suspension of All Services notice to its members:

“Our Club experienced a severe flood situation, which necessitates closing the building immediately while we ascertain the extent of further damage.

“All dining, programming and other services are suspended until further notice. As soon as we have more information, we will convey it to the membership. We appreciate your support during this time.”

About the severe flood situation, nobody’s heard. About a federal tax fraud case against the former executive director, everybody’s heard. A flood you can stop. A federal fraud case, not.

Right now you can’t even find a pro in their men’s room.

Bale’s yo-yo weight

Running on the road to the awards is the story of the 24-hour race at Le Mans, “Ford v Ferrari.” It co-stars Christian Bale and Matt Damon.

To play Dick Cheney in “Vice,” Bale had to pack on big-time weight. For this, to slither into razor-thin space behind that racer’s wheel, he needed to be skinny. How did he shrink that weight? Water diet, Atkins diet, vegan diet, some other low-carb thing — what?

Did he go to the gym, hire a trainer, what?

The Hollywood Reporter printed his answer. “I didn’t eat.”

Asleep at the wheel

We’ve heard, we’ve read, how a private off-the-record dinner guest secretly taped the president of the United States. Question is how???! Washington dummies are supposed to protect the most powerful man in the world, commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces, leader of the free world, right? Such arrivals as these would normally have to wriggle through a metal detector just to hop a commuter flight to Wilmington, right? — and nobody checked them?

Where was the Secret Service? FBI? CIA? Anybody???! He trusted his protection. The capital of the United States has become a herpetarium.

Royals flush with drama

London Bridge has fallen down. The future king married his former mistress, who once was called his tampon. Randy dandy handy Andy, who can’t remember or sweat, has become Her Majesty’s closest adviser.

Now that other beaut burbled: “There was no other option.”

Yeah, there was, Brit-twit. Not playing an extra to a savvy me-me actress who just stuck you in her next big scene. Wish you luck with your stiff upper lip.

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“My Wall Street guy’s been wrong so many times, the Democrats offered him a job as a lead impeachment manager.”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.