The List . . .

Wanna know something I hate about living in Chicago? No, not all the snow we've been having. Nope, not even the sub-zero weather that keeps coming back like a bad yeast infection.

It's Eric and Kathy.

For those of you blessed to live in other radio markets, The Eric and Kathy Show is the Chicago radio version of Regis and Kelly, only without the clever banter. Kathy is basically a reformed party girl who pretends like she was a virgin on her wedding night. Eric is an uber-dork, an evangelical Christian who panders for ratings with mildly risque subjects designed by some asinine MBA program director to titillate your average housewife. And there must be someone listening, because these two are each paid more than a million bucks a year.

I can't tell you how bad they are, or how unfunny they are. And yet, when I happen to be driving to a client's office at that time of the morning, flipping the stations on the FM radio (oh, if I could only splurge on a Sirius receiver), I find myself coming back to their crappy show. It's like a scab that I can't stop picking at.

And there I was the other week, picking away, when Jackass (that would be Eric) starts talking about updating his "List" for the new year. Yeah, yeah, the list of celebrities that your spouse has to give you a free pass on if you ever get a chance to fuck them. Now Eric is such a tool that his wife (a pretty hot dental hygienist - yeah, they met after he started making that million a year) knows he's got zero chance of banging any of the chicks on his list. I mean, he's such a loser that he couldn't get George Michael to bang him if he had a baggie of crystal meth taped to his ass. So she probably humors the loser about what a stud he is, should he ever have the opportunity to cross paths with Jessica Alba.

Which of course got me thinking about this whole concept of the List, and how ultimately patronizing it is. It's essentially about your spouse, patting you on the head like a toddler, saying, "now, now, sweetums, of course you can sleep with Britney Spears. You have my full permission."

Because it's never gonna happen.

Which makes me angry. I want something more subversive than some "safe" List where the chance of any danger is less than that of lightning striking you in the middle of a Chicago winter.

You know what I want to see? The real List for people, the one we keep in our heads, and never tell anyone about. The list of friends and acquaintances, co-workers and in-laws, that we really would fuck. Maybe we've flirted with them in the copy room, maybe we exchanged questioning glances with them at the Starbucks. The people that we'd drop our trousers or lift our skirts for if we get just that right combination of cocktails and opportunity and alibi.

I want to see a List that could actually happen. And that would be so shocking, or improper, or just so surprising that your husband's or your wife's jaw would drop when they heard who it includes.

So please readers, feel free to tell me about the pastor at your church, or your wife's younger sister. Your husband's boss, or the next door neighbor's college co-ed. My own list includes a certain ex-boyfriend with a nine-inch cock that for some reason drives Mike insane with jealousy if I even happen to mention his name. Yes, the same Mike that fantasizes about seeing me with other men.

The comment section is now open. I promise I won't tell a soul.