Every time I see a picture of the Founding Fathers I notice two things. One, they appear to have little smiles on their faces. It makes them look like lads you’d share an ale with while shooting the breeze. Or, if you’re an outdoors person, a turkey.

Two, there are never any women in the picture. This is easy to explain. The women are all working behind the scenes in important jobs like the Post Office or Social Security, where they’re not smiling. Not even a bit.

That’s why, when I went to the US Passport agency recently, I knew what to expect. And, let me tell you, I got more than I bargained for. So much so that I rushed home, spun my bewildered wife around and practically yelled in her ear, “Sell the Prius, fire the valet and cancel our National Geographic subscription.”

My wife joined me in registering shock and fear, which in her case amounted to yawning. (Understanding your spouse is the key to a successful marriage.)

“Our income is going to take a major hit,” I explained as calmly as I could, which in my case meant not bursting into tears any more than necessary.

It seems that everything at the Passport Agency went smoothly. It started with my appointment time. You don’t have to be a math genius to know that handing out appointment times is done strictly to turn your anger and frustration into an actuarial measurement. Statistics show that every five minutes of waiting in a government office equates to two days off your life.

I arrived 30 minutes early and was out 15 minutes before my appointment time. I’m not sure, but I think that means I left a week younger than when I came in. Surely, somebody deserves to be docked a week’s pay for that, or lose some important privilege, like slamming the window closed in front of the next person in line.

The impertinent agent I dealt with dragged out my visit by thanking me for using the Passport Agency. This was the same agent who at first rejected my passport photo. Then, with no encouragement on my part, she accepted it after checking with her supervisor. That really tested my good nature, because now I couldn’t demand to talk to her supervisor. Why are we paying a supervisor if there’s no need for me to talk to him?

Here’s the worst part.

For years, all the way back to those Founding Fathers, government offices were a fine place to look for humor material. (You can ask Benjamin Franklin about this.) If you weren’t feeling funny one week, if you slept all day Tuesday and now had a tight deadline, if your wife made dinner reservations with Wolfgang Puck for your anniversary, you could pop into any government office and ask for something. A simple, “Where’s the restroom?” was good for an instant 600 word column you could sell for some mad money.

Apparently, someone in Congress got the bright idea of taking aim at humorists by ladling pork into some appropriations bill. “Sixteen billion dollars for soybeans, ten billion for measuring the respiration of mating scallops and a few hundred million for making government workers happy. Let’s see how funny humorists find that.” I’m sure if I looked I’d find exactly those words in the Congressional Record.

It’s a low blow, these back room politics. if I don’t come up with some funny ideas my wife and I will to have to cut back dramatically.

Starting with the trip I needed the passport for.