Today can't be Sunday. If it were really Sunday, the Redskins would be playing.

Nothing feels right today. Nothing feels real.

It's been creeping up on us for some time now, but no one's been noticing.

Victor Kiam, the razor czar, is constantly on TV, apologizing for what he said while denying he said it. A Cincinnati court says pictures of private parts are not dirty, but a Cincinnati coach won't let women reporters into his locker room because they might see private parts.

Our president is furious that Congress didn't vote him the new taxes he requested. This is the same president who said to all Americans -- taking special note of the hearing-impaired -- No New Taxes.

No one is pointing out the obvious fact that ... he is no longer our president!

We have no president.

What would he be president of? We have no country.

The country recently ceased to exist when someone named "Newt" persuaded other people, many of whom had equally small and silly names, to vote against the budget.

And so we seem to be between budgets at the moment. This is a euphemism, like being "between jobs." Like an actor being "between pictures." Victor Mature is "between pictures." He has now been between pictures for 31 years. In Hollywood, this is called being "on hiatus." America, like "Island Son," is on hiatus, waiting for a spot in the schedule. (It could be worse. America could be on cable.)

Without a budget, we have no government. Without a government, we have no border, no order, no economy; we may as well be Yemen. So the immediate problem is to get a budget we can live with. In my house, this happens all the time. I find out that we're having budgetary problems when I walk into a department store to buy a pair of socks, and my credit card is confiscated.

"You're over your limit, Mr. Kornhauser."

"Fine, I'll let a friend drive."

"I'm afraid we can't let you buy these socks."

"Can I lease them?"

That evening certain automatic budgetary cuts kick in. This is known in our house as the Gramm-Rudman-Nordstrom Act. It is a time of great sacrifice.

First, I give up imported chocolate.

Then I call my father.

In a budget crisis you always call your father. (It's not like you were ever gonna call Mr. Toblerone.)

Our country can't call its father. He is unavailable. He's getting his teeth sanded, stained and polyurethaned.

So we're going to have to borrow money elsewhere.

NBW is out. Eleanor Holmes Norton was flush for a while, but she's written some serious checks lately. Jack Kent Cooke has a lot of money. (And the least he could do, today of all days -- such an unreal day -- is have a cookout for all of us displaced Redskins fans. "Lesley, more hot dogs!") I think we ought to hit up Princess Di. She's loaded. She just breezed through and collected $3,500 a pop for shaking hands. How far do you think you'd get if you pressed 50 grand into her palm?

Speaking of unreality, how about Sid "Nyah Nyah" Kramer? Sid lost the primary election for Montgomery County executive, then announced he would ignore the results and run as a write-in. Sid, what are you, a shmegegge? You lost, Sid. You conceded, and you offered Neal Potter your support. You can't come back and pretend you had fingers crossed so it doesn't count.

What if everyone were such a poor loser, Sid? What if on Inauguration Day Mike and Kitty had shown up at the White House with a steamer trunk and their schnauzer?

Sid, it's over. The fat lady didn't merely sing, she cut an album.

Nothing is real. Nothing to get hung about. ... Can someone tell me why we are so exultant that Germany has reunified? Does Elizabeth Arden hope to save itself with a new line of lederhosen? Let's see a show of hands: How many of you think everyone would have been jumping up and down in glee if this was, say, 1947? Let's pretend Harry Truman was calling Winston Churchill to tell him. Don't you think the conversation would have gone like this:

Truman: "Winnie, Germany is getting back together."

Churchill: "Hold on while I gouge out my eyeballs with a soup spoon."

If this reunification thing really catches on, there are plenty of possibilities right here at home. North and South Dakota could merge and form their own small principality, like Liechtenstein; its entire economy could be based on stamps and postcards from Mount Rushmore. We don't need 50 states, 48 is fine -- we'll just roll out the old flags. Kansas and Kansas State could merge, and they still wouldn't win three football games a year. Sonny could get back with Cher. Jerry with Dean. Bob and Carol with Ted and Alice. Let's merge, baby. Consolidate while there's still time. The thousand points of light might make one pretty strong flashlight, strong enough to see into next Sunday, when the Redskins resume playing football.