Ever since the tragically crippling jet-ski accident which left me confined within an iron lung, I've spent much of my government-subsidized life listening to the radio.

Radio is an obvious entertainment choice for the handicapped. Given my condition, it's not exactly like I'll be a NASCAR driver anytime soon. It's hard to work acomputer mouse with one's teeth. I can't read books or magazines unless someone's standing there, flipping the pages for me. Jerking off is out of the question. And so I spend most of my waking hours listening to Mr. Marconi's wondrous invention.

But, alas and alack, most of what passes for radio entertainment in the craggy Northwest is roughly as compelling as wallpaper paste. What blazingly entertaining personages does Portland offer the hungry, iron-lung-bound radio listener? Lars Larson? Bill Gallagher? They're about as exciting as a neatly folded brown paper bag. To call them "radio personalities" would imply that they have personality, and that would be unfair. My frickin' IRON LUNG has more charisma than these jokers, and that's without the rad customized chrome job I had done on it a few months ago.

And the syndicated programs which cost-conscious programmers pipe in from other cities are no better: sweaty-jowled clogged-artery conservative blowhards; colonically irrigated liberal veggie-burgers; delusional genitally manipulated space-alien abductees; lantern-jawed testosterone-O.D. jocknuts; emotionally arrested wedgie-givin' "Morning Zoo" poop-flingers; and a vast, dark, cattle stockyard filled with stuffed-shirt spiceless human breadsticks who possess bland voices and no ideas.

Yet, in a giant ocean of runny diarrhea, a few solid turds inevitably float to the top. And these top-flight turds, ladies and gentleman, are "The Liz Wilde Show," "LET'S FIGHT!" with Jim Goad, and "Big Fat Radio" with Kim Morgan and Billy Turner. These three shows bring a tender smidgen of hope to this paralyzed-below-the-neck body of mine.

We finally...son of a fucking bleeding CUNT, we FINALLY...have some good local radio in Portland. Thanks to these three shows, there is hope in Rip City. There is promise in Puddletown. There is reason for celebration the City of Roses.

Hail Radio! Yay for radio! Woo-hoo, radio! YEAH...Rrrrrrrradio! Everybody throw their hands in the air and "raise the roof" for radio! Rizz-adio is in the hizz-ouse! Awwww, yeah, party people! That's what I'M talkin' 'bout! NOW what? You gotta problem wit dat? Didn't think so, bee-yatch!!!

THE LIZ WILDE SHOW * Noon-3am Weekdays * 1080 AM KOTK www.lizwilde.com

This show is the staple of my weekday listening. Think of Liz Wilde as Howard Stern with a smaller nose and bigger tits. Syndicated in twenty or so cities, Liz is a large-boobied, full-figured gal who rests her massive jugs on the console and takes a humorous approach to sex, sexuality, sexual matters, and other sex-related, uh, stuff. Liz is a menstruating Mensa member surrounded by such wacky regulars as Scary Intern, Jay the Lizbian, Sam the Jewish Mailman (who was reportedly once married to entertainer Martha Raye), and Mickey the Irish Prick, who has been permanently banned due to allegedly insensitive comments. Whatta zany show! Men vomit on interns. Strippers insert objects into their vaginas. Entertainers drop by to comment on the affairs of the day. A frequent guest is Exotic's own Shecky "Bates" Greene, who drags one "sex worker" after the next into the studio and, in his forceful, studly, Otto Preminger style, commands them to do all manner of degrading acts.

Fun stuff. Fun, funny stuff. Go Wilde, everybody!