And now, for a systematic, thoughtful, well-researched analysis of last night’s election: Some people voted. Some people didn’t. The world is coming to an end. Or maybe it’s not.

The sun came up this morning. Or maybe it didn’t.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. At long last the election talk is over, and it will be days maybe hours before it starts again.

In the meantime, how about a column about what The New York Times calls the “Grown-Up Bachelor Pad.”

Actually, because The New York Times is The New York Times, it also calls the Grown-Up Bachelor Pad a Manhattan “pied-à-terre,” which is French for “way too pretentious.”

By the way, I really like The New York Times. (Motto: “Are you sure you’re smart enough to like us, Mike?”) But sometimes the paper tends to get a tad too, shall we say, sophisticated for its own good.

Or too sophisticated for my own good. To some people, the story in Tuesday’s paper about the pied-à-terre might not seem sophisticated at all.

But it was to me. For one thing, I had to go online to figure out how to put that little accent mark over the “a” in “pied-à-terre.” As far as I’m concerned, if I have to go online to figure out how to type a word in a story, it’s too sophisticated.

The reason I bothered to read the story about the grown-up bachelor pad is because I was single for a long time (No, really, it’s true.) and  I feel I know a little something about bachelor pads, so I was interested in seeing what a modern one looks like.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out that things have changed since I was single. Here is a brief description of the bachelor pad in the Times’ story.

“To furnish the space, Cindy Coscoros … found a mix of vintage, contemporary and custom pieces, including a Zio dining table and chairs by Marcel Wanders for Moooi; a 1970s Lucite coffee table by Les Prismatiques; and an upholstered bed from Ralph Lauren Home.”

I once lived in a swinging bachelor pad that had a fourth-hand couch I bought for $15 and a 12-inch black-and-white TV.

Ah, those were the days.

In another apartment I had a bed that I wanted to replace but nowhere to store it, so I just leaned it up against the living room wall. I called it a Murphy bed.

In that apartment I also had a better couch. I got it by trading a TV that — technically — wasn’t mine to a friend for the couch that — technically — wasn’t hers.

Nobody missed either one.

So I’m thinking that Anthony Bonsignore, the owner of the grown-up bachelor pad in the Times’ story, and I come from different bachelor circles.

First of all, it’s the names: Anthony Bonsignore sounds like some classic European dish; my name sounds like a place where you store stray Mikes.

It’s also the bachelor pad price difference. According to the Times, Anthony spent a little over $2 million for his bachelor pad and another $750,000 in renovations.

I once rented a bachelor pad for $60 a month. And it was furnished. Not well, but it was furnished.

Speaking of bachelor pads, I may have mentioned this before but when my friend, Gary Bandy, was in college, he lived with a friend in a swinging bachelor pad in Arma, Kansas. That swinging bachelor pad was quickly named … wait for it … “the Arma Pit.”

I don’t mean to judge here. If I had nearly $3 million to spend on a bachelor pad, I probably would. But I don’t, so I won’t.

If I did, I think I would call it my “pied-à-terre.” You know, since I now know how to add that little mark above the “a.”