Whether it’s border fences or general amnesty, a new solution to the country’s illegal immigration policy is proposed every day.

I personally favor a more lenient approach, but before Congress grants any rights to people who — technically speaking — aren’t supposed to be here, I think as a matter of good faith they should require someone to step forward and apologize for Menudo. More importantly, both houses should draft a joint resolution stating, in no uncertain terms, that illegal immigration is not the subject of today’s column.

What is the subject of today’s column? Commas … sort of.

When I was home on spring break, I happened to stumble across my sister’s ninth grade English textbook. Immediately, I grabbed it and looked up commas in the index. I found them, flipped to the listed page and read this phrase: “… apples, pears, and bananas.”

Ack! The dreaded serial comma, scourge of literature. How could an educational textbook perpetuate such a crime against words? “What’s wrong with these people?” I asked, and then, more importantly, “What’s wrong with me?”

I’m a copy editor, that’s what. Yes, when I’m not in front of my computer, seeing how many times I can write “cow farts” in the space of 700 words (see last week’s column), I’m here at The Post, copy editing.

Many people are unfamiliar with the inner workings of newspapers and therefore don’t know what copy editors do or that they even exist. Basically, after all the stories have been written by reporters and read by supervising editors, copy editors come in and make corrections late at night while normal, sane people are asleep, which is probably why newspapers have so many mistakes.

Getting back to the serial commas: As a matter of course, copy editors hate them. Some people, such as my roommate, call them Oxford commas and insist they are the proper English punctuation, using an argument that could possibly be very convincing if fully explained, which I will not allow to be done here because this is my column, so neener-neener — I win.

However, being a humor columnist and a copy editor creates a bit of a disconnect; while the columnist in me is thinking up patently false things to say, the copy editor in me is asking: “Should it be spelled ‘ridonkulous’ or ‘redonkulous’?” So, in the interest of finding the proper balance, as you read this I am attending a copy editing conference in Cleveland.

Conferences exist so that journalists can hone their skills and better enable themselves to inform the public. And, it just so happens that these conferences also enable them to get totally blasted with their fellow news professionals for consecutive nights in a row.

In the old days, journalists sat at their desks dreaming up ways to ruin the careers of people they hated while drinking copious amounts of gin. Luckily, some reformers came about and helped the other journalists come to a very important revelation about their harmful conduct: gin tastes like pee. So they kept on sitting around scheming against the public, but drank scotch instead.

Eventually, actual reforms came about and journalists developed ethics, which entail that, in the interest of balance, you cannot just insert your own radical opinions into a news article — you have to find an official source to state them for you. But, more importantly, ethics stipulated that it was probably not a good idea to try explaining the relevance of the latest economic developments while blitzed out of your mind.

So the newsroom drinking had to stop. To help them kick the habit, journalists developed conferences, events where they could distract their minds by meeting with other news professionals to develop their skill set and then, later, spend all their raffle winnings (conferences always have raffles) at the hotel bar.

Of course, the problem with announcing my copy editor status is that eagle-eyed readers such as yourself will no doubt catch a few gaffes in this column, to which I say: Look harder, there are way more than a few. Truthfully, I am sorry for my mistakes, but some always sneak through — especially when I’m up all night trying to figure out how to conjugate “crunk.”