Say this much for WFAN’s Craig Carton: day after day, week after week, he is able to get up far earlier in the morning than the average sports fan. And not only that, but Carton is then able to sit in a radio studio with the anthropomorphized havarti-wedge that is Boomer Esiason and talk — loudly and confidently, if not necessarily knowledgeably — about the sports issues of the day. Also, when there’s time, Carton tosses in some off-the-rack bigotry or things that are just obviously not true. On the plus side of the ledger for Carton is that he makes Phil Mushnick mad. On the negative side is that he makes me agree with Phil Mushnick, which I hate.

But that’s just me, and I’m aware that I’m not Craig Carton’s target audience. I mean, I enjoy talking about sports and care about the Mets and so on. But I also have no interest in trying to see if my ears can commit suicide, so I generally avoid the dude. That said, I know that there are others who enjoy Carton, and for whatever reason find his loudest-guy-on-the-LIRR routine stimulating. What I did not know, until I found this pyrotechnically squirm-inducing blog post by Bonnie Bernstein at, is that there are people who find Carton’s loudest-guy-on-the-LIRR routing stimulating. Like that. Down there. I know!

I have given up on real men. But before I go to bed alone, I make sure the AM/FM alarm clock is set to Sports Radio 66 WFAN NY at 5:55 a.m. As I slumber, I dream of my cowboy. It has become my obsession to quiet my dogs each morning, so that Craig Carton’s voice will be the first I hear when I wake.

It’s a love hate relationship. My radio lover does not tell me I need to lose weight. I do not tell him to stop looking at other women. Sometimes I do get a bit miffed when he talks about his “tournament of babes.” Out of jealousy, I change the station. I know he is married, and I am trying to learn to share him with another woman. Though, like a good airwaves companion should, I always come back to Craig…

I don’t think about what my voiceover husband looks like; I’ve never seen him on television. It’s Craigy’s voice that gets my heart intoxicated. I don’t know if another man can do for me what his wild vocal musings do. I just want to run my fingers through his voice.

After calling the station way too many times for a sane person, I got through to my radio hubby. On hold for 20 minutes, I was going to have a boom box interlude, my version of phone sex. Shaking, phone to my ear, I smacked my lips with gloss in anticipation. It was Craig, me and millions of listeners, my very own public booty call. He pegged me a “dopey Phillies fan.” By waiting so long to speak with my radio husband, I deserved that commentary on my life. He demanded I blow him a kiss. I obliged.

Like they say, different strokes for different barf-yourself-unconscious-es.