When I think of The Happiest Hour in New York City’s West Village, I picture a pretty fratty cocktail bar known for attracting a good-looking crowd of 20-to-30-somethings — not a controversial hotbed of political commentary.

I was surprised to hear that a couple of Trump supporters had recently been asked by management to leave the bar for wearing “Make America Great Again” hats, a signature of Donald Trump’s presidential campaign.

As a West Village resident myself, I decided to borrow a friend’s MAGA cap and test my luck at my neighborhood bar — a social experiment, if you will.

Thursday night at about 8:45 p.m., I set out on my undercover mission at the Happiest Hour with a girlfriend who had been briefed on the plan.

A 7-foot-tall doorman named Eddie stared me down while checking my California license, which he scanned twice before begrudgingly letting me in. We ordered drinks, and 10 minutes later, the manager, Jeff, called me over, requesting that I remove my hat immediately.

“We’ve literally had issues. Allowing politics into the bar is always a bad thing,” he said. “About two and a half weeks ago, we had a group that was all wearing ‘Make America Great Again’ hats and then had to break up a fight…had we not had somebody like Eddie [the bouncer], it would have been very bad.”

I decided to push back, explaining that I was having a bad hair day, that the hat went with my outfit and that I was not a violent person. Not wanting to be kicked out right away, I agreed to his compromise: In exchange for taking off my MAGA cap, I would wear a newsboy hat he handed me.

“It’s brand new,” he insisted. “You are going to keep my hat. It’s a gift. Don’t worry about it.”

My girlfriend pointed out that the hat clashed with my flannel button down and Metallica long-sleeve, but we both agreed I would play nice.

Eddie commented that I looked “adorable” without the Trump hat on. I put the MAGA hat on the wooden table behind the bar that I was standing by.

Moments later, a couple of drunk-seeming bros caught sight of the offending merchandise.

Wasting no time at all, they asked whether they could have it. Since it wasn’t mine, I said I’d sell it, not thinking they’d bite.

How much? I threw out a number that I assumed was ridiculous: “A hundred bucks and you can have the hat.”

A friendly female voice who seemed to be with the guys whispered, “he can afford more than that,” so I changed my tune.

“Price just went up. You want the hat? Two hundred bucks.”

Now two bros were battling over the hat and their wallets — flipping through wads of hundreds eventually throwing down a Benjamin and two fifties before snatching the coveted hat.

My girlfriend briefly snapchatted the exchange to commemorate the moment in which a hat that goes for $3 on Ebay is being bought for $200 at a trendy Manhattan bar.

Life seems pretty OK in Trump’s economy, I thought.

Cue the ego: the instant the hat is placed on one of their heads, both bros begin to exude Alpha, prompting the return of management and giant Eddie, again pleading with them to take off the hat.

The guys mouth off, and I hear one of them say, “He’s our president. Why can’t I wear this hat?”

Management again cites not wanting politics inside the bar and in less than five minutes’ time, the group is escorted out — but not before one of the bros can snatch a $50 off the table.

A discount rate for their trouble, I suppose.

As for me, I came out of the evening $150 and one newsboy hat richer.