Louie

Mark works with a guy named Louis. Whenever he pages us at 3 in the morning, or 3 in the afternoon on a birthday or takes Mark away from a family/holiday dinner, I break out in song. This song. Listen to it, it's worth it.




Now it turns out that after working 8 days straight, 12 hours with a one hour commute each way, Louis is trying to take away our Thanksgiving. Turns out also, he looks and acts nothing like the hot seventies guys on the album cover. His last name is half a mile long, he's short, overweight and, well, nothing like the Louie of my imagination.

I've had many men in my bedroom courtesy of Mark's pager. Gary, famously, on the fourth of July at 5 in the morning. Lately, Dave, who had the riot act read to him when he called at 7 a.m. the other day (you really don't' expect me to wake him up when the JUST got to bed, do you?). Louie has always been there for me. I can rally and sing "She was black, as the night, Louie was whiter than white..." and feel better.

Now I want him dead. Or at least mutilated.