You have to hand it to White House party-crashers, Tareq and Michaele Salahi. They've got 'em made out of brass. The kind that when they bump together, they make stormy weather and lightnin' shoots out of your, well, you get the idea.

Indelicate? Mayhaps. But how else to respond when confronted with such a stupendous exhibition of cajones by a vapid twosome obsessed with getting cast in Bravo's "Real Housewives of Washington, D.C."?

The fact that these two goofs actually whined their way into a state dinner for the prime minister of India is worrisome to put it mildly. What was the Secret Service doing? Talking in its shoe? Trapped in the "cone of silence?" What?

It's not Obama's fault that he's photographed shaking hands with the couple in a receiving line. Everyone who's watched "The Princess Diaries" knows that the way this high-falutin' political party stuff goes is that someone stands beside the fancy folks and whispers the names of the guests coming up. It's like when the Cracker Barrel finally announces your name on the loudspeaker and you feel unduly proud as you strut through the backscratchers and head for your vittles.

The thing that cracks me up in all this is that the Secret Service, for all its sexy portrayals in the movies, basically has the technology of Laura Ingalls' chalk slate on "Little House on the Prairie."

At a checkpoint, the Secret Service had a clipboard with names of invited guests. The gruesome twosome's names weren't on it but they schmoozed their way in anyway.

A clipboard? Are you kidding me? This isn't the South Georgia debutante ball at the Ramada we're talking about. A clipboard? Where's the retina scan? In this age of terrorism threats, the only thing we have standing between POTUS getting dusted with anthrax is basically the same thing they use for call-ahead seating at Red Lobster? Even Costco demands a picture I.D.

I have to hand it to those wacky Salahis, though. Last year, Duh Hubby and I attended a local fundraising gala in our little city and our names weren't on the list despite the fact that we'd paid for our tickets well in advance and personally knew 95 percent of the guests. A simple misunderstanding, we said. Please check again.

The two young women at the check-in table were polite but firm. Our names weren't on the list so we weren't getting in. Finally, someone in power vouched for us, ID's were checked and we were escorted to what could best be described as the Table of the Damned, a lonely location for "overflow" guests.

Bottom line: If the Secret Service wants to know how it's done, they should visit this year's gala. They can call me for the particulars.