Time Magazine won’t be announcing its Person of the Year for another six weeks or so, but as far as I’m concerned, the competition’s over. Let’s have a big round of applause for the guy who saved America.

This guy:

We’re talking about you, Ron Klain. Stand up and take a bow. Because If not for you, we’d all be gushing blood out of our eyes right now. But thanks to you — and you alone — our nation is now Ebola-free.

Ron, I know all the credit goes to you because . . .

Well, because before you were named EBOLA CZAR OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA (!!!!), there was a crisis in the U.S. of A., almost as bad as that year when sharks were falling out of the sky in the Midwest. Just a few weeks ago, all over the country, decent, god-fearing people were dropping dead on the spot, spilling blood out of their noses, their eyeballs, their ears, their pores. They were spreading death on cruise ships, on airplanes, on subways, in bathrooms, in bowling alleys and meatball restaurants.

In fact, if you were in the same city as an Ebolan — hell, even the same state — you were a dead man.

I know that because it was in the news. At least, that’s how I remember it. It was like a few days before yesterday.

But not anymore. Not with Ron Klain on the job.

Those two nurses who got the disease in Dallas from treating a guy from Liberia whom the hospital sent home with a 103-degree fever, who stayed at home for a couple of days and then who returned to the hospital and died? Clean bill of health for the two nurses! Thank you, Ron.

That doctor who brought the disease home from West Africa and got sick in New York? Clean bill of health! Thank you, Ron.

And they’re not the only ones. All those people the guy from Liberia was with between hospital visits … all those people on that flight from Ohio … all those people on the cruise ship … all those people at the bowling alley and in the subway and the meatball shop and the High Line …

Sorry . . . No Ebola for any of you. Not with Ron Klain on the job.

Not even for that nurse who came home from West Africa with a flushed face, a sure sign of imminent death. Thanks to you, Ron, she now has a clean bill of health, though I guess we really need to give an assist to Dr.’s Chris Christie and Andrew Cuomo. Imagine what havoc that redhead might have caused if she hadn’t been held in a tent without a toilet for a couple of days with a collection of menus from the finest restaurants in Newark.

But hey, that’s all history now. As I’m writing this, they’ve just announced that the doctor in New York has left the hospital, that the nurse in Maine is free to have some chowdah at her local lobster pound, and that there isn’t a single Ebolan left in the country.

You can exhale now, America. Even better, you can inhale, which is nice since we’ve been holding our breath, refusing to suck in any of that Ebola air for weeks.

Even the Islamic State has stopped sending Ebolans to Mexico so they can cross the Rio Grande by the thousands and lick all of us with their Ebola saliva, just like the fearmongers said they were doing.

Before you showed up, Ron, everyone in America was wringing their sweaty Ebola hands, crying about how the Centers for Disease Control was incompetent, how President Obama, that closet Kenyan, hated America and wanted us all to die, and how the Surgeon General was AWOL.

And then we discovered we didn’t even have a Surgeon General, because Obama nominated some jerk who thinks 31,000 gun deaths every year in the U.S. is some kind of health problem.

Yes, I know, there is still a major Ebola epidemic in West Africa, where thousands have died and tens or even hundreds of thousands more are expected to die, where help is desperately needed and where any doctor or nurse who volunteers to go from here to there is worthy of sainthood.

But, c’mon … they’re Africans. They don’t value life the way we do. We’re Americans, and the bottom line is that we don’t have any Ebola in America anymore. That’s all that matters.

And it could not have happened without you, Ron Klain. You’re the Person of the Year.

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