They stuck him in a lineup that even would have protected A-Rod in October, and still, Roger Clemens couldn’t manage to look good.

They batted him third, behind a pompous jerk of a politician who blamed a woman for her own assassination and a Boston mobster with 20 hits to his credit, and Clemens still had the nerve to whine, pout and shake his fist at how tough it is to be him.

First, there was Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf having the guts, if not the sense, to admit his country was so unsafe that Benazir Bhutto should have known better than to stick her head out a car window. Then came John Martorano, the hit man who was not only honest enough to own up to his crimes but honorable enough to keep a promise to Ed Bradley that he would appear on “60 Minutes,” a promise he kept despite Bradley’s death last year.

Then came the big, bad Rocket, pursing his lips, shaking his head, evading and obfuscating, a big squirmy teenager being reprimanded by an 89-year-old principal. Suddenly, the Third World despot seemed as noble as Gandhi and the two-bit thug came off as commanding as Tony Soprano.

And Clemens appeared as intimidating as Pee-wee Herman and as believable as Joe Isuzu. It was his most embarrassing performance since Game 3 of the ALDS.

He started by complaining about what the world owed him, moved on to kvetching about money, finished up with some self-pitying rant about how people in this country believe you are guilty until proven innocent, and by the time Mike Wallace dismissed him, you know longer cared about whether Brian McNamee was telling the truth to George Mitchell.

You just wanted Roger Clemens to go away and tell his story to someone else. Anyone else.

The fact is, the Clemens-McNamee affair remains a he-said/he-said case, and minus a piece of paper from a laboratory with Clemens’ name, social security number and blood type on it, will probably never be conclusively settled.

But this much we know for sure: Once again, Clemens tests positive for the big three of arrogance, entitlement and stupidity. Throw in self-pity and he’s hit a grand slam.

The sad part is, he really believes he is a victim here, besieged by lesser beings who seek to bring him down, offended that he must answer their questions, refute their charges, annoyed that he now must peer down from his lofty perch to acknowledge their very (miserable) existence.

He says he’s tired of answering questions, but the truth is, few athletes have ever been as good at dodging, evading and intimidating his way out of answering anything of substance like Clemens. He says he won’t sue McNamee because he doesn’t want to spend the money — after all, he made only $22 million for a half-season’s work last year. And he blames his “counsel” for advising him not to speak with Mitchell, but let’s see if he doesn’t find a way to weasel out of talking to Congress next week.

Mostly, he says he shouldn’t even have to deal with this issue because, well, he’s Roger Clemens.

“You think I’d get an inch of respect,” he moaned.

Through the years, he’s gotten miles of respect and leeway, and the benefit of way too much doubt. The free ride has lasted nearly 25 years, but now, the time has come for Clemens to pay up.

Or at least, just to shut up.