NEW YORK — The Republic of Manny came to New York Tuesday night, a government of Manny, by Manny and for Manny, in which the only rules that are followed, or even exist, are the ones Manny Ramirez deems worthy of being followed.

Which means none.

He came into the visiting clubhouse, spied the throng of media awaiting him, spread his arms wide and proclaimed with a grin, "Most wanted!"

Then, he refused to answer a single question regarding the only reason why he was wanted, which was his just-completed 50-game suspension for failing a drug test.

"I'm not talking about anything I talked about in San Diego," he said, referring to a brief media session before his first game back last Friday.

In that one, he also said nothing, while masking the sincerity in his eyes behind wraparound mirror sunglasses.

"I'm only talking about the game, OK?"

Then, he went out, faced the lukewarm boos of a Mets crowd whipped into submission by the ineptitude of the home team, drove in three runs on two hits and got himself ejected for throwing a tantrum along with his helmet and elbow pad after being called out on strikes by plate umpire John Hirschbeck.

All before five innings had been completed.

Who's got it better than Manny Ramirez these days?

Consider this: He fails a drug test, goes away for 50 games, comes back to a team that is still the best in baseball, enjoys a hero's welcome in a visiting ballpark, and has columnists writing that he still deserves to be in the All-Star Game next week.

Then again, he will have to muddle through on a mere $18 million this year instead of $25 million.

That's about as tough as life in the Republic of Manny ever gets.

Last year, his manager, Joe Torre, asked him to get a haircut. He hemmed, hawed, dillied and dallied and finally trimmed about two inches off his mid-back length dreadlocks, cutting them just short enough, as Torre put it, to "dot the I in his name on his uniform shirt."

Meanwhile, the Dodgers began marketing full-length Manny Wigs in the ballpark. And Torre thought Randy Levine was undermining his authority?

But that is what a team does when it is 15 games over .500 with Manny in the lineup, and only eight games over — 29-21 — without him.

No wonder Ramirez glides through his life as if rules don't apply to him, because face it, they don't.

And no surprise then, that unlike those who preceded him on baseball's wall of steroid shame, Ramirez didn't even bother to try to apologize for his transgression, or justify his "mistake," or blame it on a personal trainer or some hapless relative.

To do any of those things, you must actually worry about consequences and care about reaction.

Manny does neither, and best of all, he's not about to pretend that he does.

So he spared us the spectacle of a Jason Giambi-like quasi-apology, or an Andy Pettitte act, in which he assured everyone that he only resorted to steroids and HGH to help out his team, or, worst of all, the A-Rod routine, in which "taking responsibility" meant blaming it all on some dopey cousin.

And mercifully, he didn't try to explain the presence in his bloodstream of Clomid, a female fertility drug, by claiming he was trying to get pregnant.

Frankly, my dear, he acted as if he didn't give a damn.

And why should he?

On Saturday, he hit home run No. 534, tying Jimmy Foxx, who weighed all of 195 (natural) pounds. Three more and he will erase Mickey Mantle, whose PED of choice was Scotch.

His own manager, Torre, who has neither a plaque in Cooperstown nor, thankfully, a vote, said Ramirez still belongs in the Hall of Fame.

And while they booed him in Flushing, they still love him in L.A., which, along with the rest of California, elected a steroid user to be its governor.

But that's what life is like when you rule over the Republic of Manny. It means never having to say you're sorry.

For anything.