The Continuing Saga of Randy and Evi Quaid

iR story #1
iR story #2

Fragments.  Fragments of insanity just like the inner workings of Randy's mind: look.

1

Rats can be quite a delicacy when done right.  The biggest problem is the fur.  Most of the time this can be done away with with a good burning, but when in hiding, smoke can be the biggest detractor of concealment. If you have a knife you can skin it.  Or you can boil it.  Most of the time though, you find yourself too hungry to care.  To think I once consumed caviar at swank Hollywood parties.  The drinks.  The shine of the cars. The shine of their eyes.  The shine of their jewelry.  Everyone shined. Like stars ought to.  Rats brains are like caviar.  You can suck them through their eyeballs.  Really, its the best part.  Squirrels are too fast. Best to stick with rats.  Rats.

2 

lulz, this photoshop sucks, iR approved 

RANDY:  Rip?  Rip, you there?  Hey buddy.  I'm calling from a pay phone, I can't really hear you.

RIP TORN:  That's. . . that's beehcause I wasn't talking.

A drunk Rip Torn had just finished off a bottle of whiskey and was playing around with a pistol, pointing it at things in his vicinity and killing them with his mind:  KHEWW KHEWW.  The phone had rung and he had picked it up, and was even now killing armies of inanimate objects.

RANDY:  Listen, just listen, I"m in a real fix, but I can't talk much.

RIP TORN:  I'm no sailor!

On Rip Torn's end he could hear Randy breathing heavy, as if he had recently undergone some strenuous activity, and Evi Quaid singing La Vida Loca just like a bird.  For some reason he was reminded he was no sailor.

RANDY:  Listen.  We just evaded them.  Them!  Them!  Those bastards, they're like ticks on a dog's back.  They're like chocolate stains on a fat boy's shirt.  You know they're gonna be there.  You.  looking. . . Just. around. . . Don't know where!  They're after us.  Just know that.  That means they could be after you too!

The silence which ensued almost illustrated the look of confusion on rip Torn's face.  He seemed genuinely perplexed.

RIP TORN:  After who?  After what?  When!  Where are the bastards!

RANDY:  Just listen.  Listen.

RIP TORN:  Wait?  You're on a payhee phone?

Even Rip Torn found it strange.  He thought to ask how?  How?  Where? Where did you manage to find one of those things?  but Randy answered him:

RANDY:  Yeah, we're in Canada.

RIP TORN:  That ehhsplainsit.

RANDY:  Listen.  They're after stars.  Big stars. . . Stars like us. . . . . . Oh my God!  They're probably tracing this call!  I'll call you back.

Rip Torn casually hung up the phone and then went back to killing things around his home office with his mind.  A picture of his first wife fell victim to his imagination and the poison of his breath:  KHEWW KHEWW.  The pistols deadly end scanned the room, Rip leaning back in the chair and squinting his eye as much to add to the character he played as to keep himself balanced and the room from spinning about him.  A half hour must have passed, and bored with his murdering, he took up inspecting his deadly weapon.  He hiccuped on occasion.  The phone rang.

RANDY:  Rip?  Its me.  Had to change location.  They're after us.  But look, if you just come up to Canada with us, we can fight them.  Rally the troops.  Bring in the greats.  You know Tom Arnold right?  They're after him.  Chevy Chase. . .  They're after everyone.

RIP TORN:  What of your brother?

RANDY:  Fuck him.

RIP TORN:  Of your brother. . .

RANDY:  Fuck him.  Listen.  They murdered Heath Ledger.  They killed David Carradine.  I know that, and because I know it, they're trying to get rid of me too. . . Oh God, I've involved you now too.  Listen, they're Hollywood Star - Whackers.  The Whackers.  Offing us. . . Offing us. . .

RIP TORN:  I do enjoy casserole.

Rip Torn, still firing at things around the room with his imagination had become overzealous, pulling the trigger he bore a hole right in his sole copy of Moby Dick.  He never liked the book, so he didn't mind much. He then casually hung up, probably to make some casserole.

RANDY:  Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Shit. Shit. Shit.

3

When they first walked in, I could tell something was off about them. They just had that sort of look to them, and believe me, I should know. In my fifteen years at the Blue Swallow I have seen just about every breed of scum and lowlife walk through the door, even the occasional rich fool looking to spend a night with a hooker, unknowing of the disease she was about to impart on him.  I know trouble when I see it, I have a discernible eye for that sort of thing.  My eye almost starts to itch, all on its own, and the second that bell over the door twinkled and the neon lights flooded the floor of the small office, I knew they were trouble. 

I was itchin' fierce.

First, I must state that:

My boss has a penchant for making money, and as such he never likes to turn away business, which means his employees are never to even think of it, even as a smiling villain drools on your desk and eyes the register with hungry eyes.

With that said:

I knew I had seen them somewhere.  When they signed in as Bonnie and Clyde, I knew it was a lie, but facing the boss was hardly anything I was interested in.  The weekend was near.  I couldn't quite recognize them, and as I looked at the man I tried to imagine him without the fat about his face, to imagine him without the wispy unkempt beard, but all of it was in vain, all I could think of was December . . .  He was a memory kept yet not quite tangible enough for the mind to bring up for the eyes to see, and as such, it irritated me.  Only the man spoke, his face blank and lifeless. The woman next to him seemed capable of only making squeaks and squeals, like a trapped mouse being tortured by a cat.  Yet no keen eye could see any cat.  Just nervous twitches.  Squeaks.  She was annoying too.  To be honest I was happy to get rid of them.

They paid cash for one night.

They took their key and left.

In the morning the police arrived, and they asked me questions about a Randy and Evi Quaid.  I described them, and they said I had described the fugitives they were looking for perfectly.  They hadn't returned their key, so I assumed they were still in their room.  We went down to it, and the cops entered, kicking down the door with their pistols drawn.

They found a room with chairs turned grotesquely over, some missing legs, others gutted with what one officer estimated was a six inch blade. The mirror on the wall had been shattered, it lay on the floor reflecting an army of fragmented police offers.  The bed no longer resembled a bed, but more a fire pit, as scorch marks emanated from the center of the Sealy Posturepedic.  The television was gone, even though it was bolted to a dresser.  Now that I mention it, the dresser was gone too.  All the towels were missing, even the Gideon's Bible.

It was then the officer said:

"Well Earl, we've got another one."

Earl was his partner.

4

Dear Dennis,

I just want you to know what a cocksucker you are.  I want you to know that I know you've always had eyes for Evi.  I remember than night in January.  I remember everything.  Evi remembers too.  I know you've spoken with them.  I know you've told them all about me, I know they've told you they're going to kill me.  I know you don't care.  You jealous bastard.

Their control runs deep.  They've taken our home and turned the world on us.  We weren't running.  We're not crazy.  We're surviving.  We're targets.  They've sought to make an example out of us.  Them and everyone else.  He'll, you're probably one of them.  I'll probably tear this up when I'm done with it.  I just wanted you to know you're a cocksucker. What a shitty little brother.  I knew you were always jealous, but this is just ridiculous.

Big Bro,

R.Q.

Randy took the hand written note, smeared about the edges, soggy from the sweat on his hands and stared one last time.  He must have read it thirty times.  He tore it into pieces, and as the soap and grimy water from a Lexus getting a luxurious bath washed down the rain gutter, he tossed them in, and the waters carried the pieces with it, down and off towards the ocean.

5

SBPD Arnold BARRY #3528
09-18-10
7:20 PM

I was on patrol when I received call of a 10-31.  Arriving on the scene I called for backup and proceeded towards the residence.  During an interview with the family they claimed they had heard noises from their guest house and suspected people of squatting there.

200 yards span between the house and the guest house.  A search of the perimeter revealed only one entrance into the guest house in front, and all of windows were blacked out.  Officers Gutierrez and Smith arrived on the scene providing backup.  Knocking on the door brought no response and after the necessary allotment of time we proceeded to use force.  The door did no budge at first, but with the help of Officer Gutierrez we managed to open the door and enter the residence.  Pieces of an outdoor jungle gym had been dismantled and propped up against the door. Furniture within the guest house had been destroyed, along with the personal effects contained therein.

The kitchenette was empty, along with the two other adjoining rooms. Officer Smith searched the bedroom where there two suspects, Randy and Evi Quaid were found laying on the floor unresponsive.

Paramedics were called in to the scene.  When they arrived Evi stood up and tried to evade custody.  She ran outside and dove into the pool.  She swam down to the bottom and did not come up until she needed air. Upon reaching the surface she was promptly arrested.  Randy was found to be merely asleep.

Suspects were separated and interviewed individually.  Neither seemed particularly nervous, though they were worried about the state of the home.

Randy revealed their ruse was to feign death, and then escape when the police weren't looking, and that he would have ran as Evi did, had he not fallen asleep.

Evi denied any knowledge of breaking and entering, claiming that her and her husband have owned the home since the early nineties.  The homeowner provided documentation disproving this claim.  The home was bought from another man, whom the Quaids recognized as the purchaser of their home in the mid-nineties, yet they still claimed the home was theres.  Neighbors had no information on the situation, but were kind enough to offer tea cakes and coffee.

Both Randy and Evi Quaid were detained at 8:45 p.m. on 09-18-10.

ARRESTING OFFICERS:

Arnold Barry
Johnathan Gutierrez
Wynona Smith

6

"Hi, I'm Evi."

His mind replayed memories of her.  Of when he first met her, on the balcony on the twenty second floor:

"You know, they say mockingbirds have the prettiest song.  But they are wrong."  She hung over the railing, staring down at all the ants beneath her without a worry at all.  She smiled though she seemed to be teetering over the edge.  Jesus, she's smiling. . .  "I much prefer humming birds." She said, and then started humming and moving all about the balcony.  "I also like it when crows laugh."

It was then that he knew for certain, that he was in love with her.  Though there were other people at the party, he only noticed her: this humming bird moving ten times faster than everyone else, this humming bird living faster than everyone else, an exotic dart shot through the monotony and grey that was his everyday of this whole life thing in dreary Los Angeles.  What could such an exotic bird be doing in such a black and white jungle as this?  Oh I forgot, they're the only kind left.  If only he could catch her.

Of when she would sing, always singing, no matter what it was she was doing.  Cooking, cleaning, fucking.  Always singing, and with a song for every moment.

Of when they first went on the run:

"Tis a lovely day don't you think?"  She said.  She was wearing that white cotton shirt without a bra, and a skirt that left little to the imagination.

"Yeah, not too bad."  The gas station attendant said.  He was in his thirties, and not really her type, but he didn't know that.  I knew that.  

"And you cooped up in here all day.  Don't you ever get to come outside and play?"  She said, with the littlest hint of mischief on her face.  I would take all I could get.

"Uh, no not much.  Got to work.  But I do get off in a few hours."  He replied.  Smiling.  The fucking jerk-off.

"Ohh really now?  Well isn't that exciting.  What is there for a girl to do around here?"  She leaned in closer, to allow him to better inspect her features.

"Well I do enjoy the bar down the road, on 12th and Washburn."  He said after looking and liking what he saw.  

"Oh, well see you there."  And then on the signal he would come up from the back of the store, and walk up to her side nice and polite, to share a moment with the poor confused fellow behind the desk.  They would pay for their gas and leave.  Outside, in the car, they would take everything out of his pockets, mostly gum and candies, but also bigger stuff like beef jerky and a handful of doughnuts.  She was always doing stuff like that. Always conning people.  She was like an actor, much like he was, only she was carefree enough to change characters on a whim, in a instant, mid-monologue, she was free to do as she pleased, and he felt she was damn good at it, too.

Of her favorite television show: The Jeffersons.  Of her favorite color: puke green.  Of her favorite medications: Zoloft and whiskey, Cocaine and Mimosas (for breakfast.)  Of the dancing at the Beverly  Hills Hilton, beneath the overhang of the ornate ceilings.  Just he and her, two wackos in a cuckoo's nest. . .

7

Now.

"So, just where are the defendants?"  The judge peered over his spectacles with tired and slightly annoyed eyes.  They fell upon the Quaid's lawyer, who's calm and professionalism was slowly giving way to a noticeable nervousness seen in the shifting of his eyes and the biting of his nails.

"Well. . . your honor. . ."

"Yes?"  He asked abruptly, almost to cease any excuse that happened to be forming in his mind.

"Well, I don't know."  He confessed.  

The judge pondered, a great sigh emerging from his person.  Swelling. Silence.  The lawyer thought to himself, mostly of the tail by the pool in Las Vegas.  The judge thought to himself, mostly of last nights roast beef dinner.  Home fried potatoes and asparagus.  Delectable.  The judge was a fat man.  

"Well, I must say, I've never seen such a blatant disregard for the judicial system.  I understand that Mr. Quaid has been in many a film.  I know he's a figure of National Lampoon.  Well National Lampoon is a buffoon.  I can only assume that the Quaids and their history of ignoring court dates is indicative of their contempt and vanity -- as if somehow their celebrity status will forgive their actions away from the silver screen.  Yes well, unfortunately for them, we are living in reality, and besides my mind fails to remember the last film Randy did, it was so long ago."

"Actually sir, It was..."  The lawyer started to say.

"I don't want to hear it.  The point is that justice should know no color, no race, no religion, that justice should not have loopholes and breaks for those who feel they're more privileged than others.  May it free the main wrongly in chains, and cut the hands of he who tries to steal.  Your clients seem to think that the rules do not apply to them.  That because of some made of imaginary enemy is out to get them that its okay to skip out of hotel rooms, after destroying them, and that it is perfectly logical for them to squat in a home that is not theirs.  Up until now, the courts have shown their understanding.  They have shown their soft backsides.  But alas sir, I shall not be the same.  As such I wish to issue bench warrants for both Randy and Evi Quaid, at 50,000 dollars bail each.  We will reconvene October 26th.  That is all."

His hammer banged through the courtroom, and with that Randy Quaid and Evi once again cemented their fugitive and regally retarded status.

The timeline goes like this:

Sept 24, 2009:  Randy and Evi Quaid are arrested in Texas for running out on a hotel bill in California.  

October 29, 2009:  Randy and Evi Quaid fail to show up to court.  Bench warrants are issued.

April 12, 13 2010:  Again Randy and Evi Quaid fail to show up to court.  

April 14, 2010:  Arrest warrants issued for Randy and Evi Quaid.  Couple forfeits 40,000 in bail money.

April 26, 2010:  Quaids actually make it to court.

April 28, 2010:  Sanger, the Quaid's attorney resolves the case.  Case thrown out due to lack of evidence.  Evi sentenced to 3 years probation and 240 hours of community service.  

September 18, 2010:  Quaids arrested for breaking and entering.  Suspected of squatting in their old home, and reportedly did 5,000 dollars worth of damage to the home.  Bail set at 50,000 each.

September 19, 2010:  Quaids post bail, released.

October 18, 2010:  Bench warrants issued, Quaids miss court AGAIN.

October 22, 2010:  Quaids arrested in Vancouver.  Apparently the jumped the border fearing persecution from a group of "Hollywood star - whackers."  Randy proceeds to claim they killed Heath Ledger, and may have even had a hand in David Carradine's death.   

October 27, 2010:  Quaids released.

love,

iR

Rip Torn, We Salute You

20% off?  Daddy like.

Rip Torn is old enough to have witnessed the Prohibition Era in America. Although he was only two when it finally ended and the speakeasies came up from underground, he was right there with everyone else, hooting and hollering, and generally praising a world flowing with booze.  In fact, there are tales that he drank a lot of people under the table that day even though he was only two years old.  But don't think for a second that it surprised the town folk of Temple, Texas, for boozing was sort of the Torn family curse, along with that rotten 'Rip' moniker (all Torn men are called and always will be called Rip, ever since that first booze hound finished his beer and looked up from the bottle with eyes drowned in milk and jokingly called Rip Torn's great great great great great grandfather 'Rip. . . Rip Torn!  Fellas!')

Rip Torn was born in the very heart of Texas, which meant there was trouble to be had in all directions.  To the north, he could chase cats to kill and torture and swig whiskey with the other boys.  To the south, he could play along the railroad tracks and chase cats to kill and torture and drink whiskey with the other boys.  To the west, they could go to Johnny Filmore's house, where they knew they could chase cats to kill and torture and steal whiskey from his father's liquor cabinet  To the east, they could chase cats to kill and torture and swig whiskey and watch the men work on building the great big interstate, said to help make Temple a 'big town.'

As far as Rip and the boys were concerned, they didn't want Temple to become a 'big town.'  It would scare all the cats away.

And then there would really be nothing to do.

They wished to stay young forever, for things to never change, but of course, this wasn't so.  Time went by, as did the seasons, as did the alcohol he consumed and warmed in his belly.

Rip grew up. . .

Into a booze guzzling, womanizing, bad ass. . .

When he left Texas, after graduating from Texas A&M, Rip went off to Hollywood, to chase his dreams and become a big star.  He studied at the Actors Studio and upon completion went to Broadway and wow'ed audiences with his leading part in the play Bird of Youth.  He was living good alright, many of the papers said when he was on stage you couldn't tell where he started and the character ended; they were one, and although he had many fine things, and all the stars had seemed to have aligned to brighten his path from dusty Texas kid to bona fide actor, he was still wanting of more.  Wanting of more and looking to expand.  He got supporting roles in movies headlined by respected actors at the time, and things were looking mighty fine for Mr. Rip Torn.

Yep, mighty fine indeed.

Rip felt great, he felt where ever he stepped fate would lead him safely to what was destined to happen: stardom.  He was set, all he had to do was wait, and in time he would achieve everything he ever wanted to be. Maybe then, he could even shed himself of that dreary weight that is the bottle, and do-in the family curse once and for all.

And like a bright a shining jewel, the opportunity came over the horizon. He had been written a part to play in the movie Easy Rider, with Henry Fonda and Dennis Hopper.  Despite the budget, they all knew they had something special on their hands, and Rip was just beginning to ease himself into a nice and satisfied state, feeling that his ship had finally come in.  Yet one night, after far too many drinks, the family curse reared its head and Rip Torn and Dennis Hopper got into a heated argument, ending with Rip foaming at the mouth and pulling a knife out, ready to spill blood.

Naturally he lost the part, and it was given to Jack Nicholson, who of course went on to do great things, and was catapulted into stardom because of his part in the movie, Easy Rider.

Could'a should'a, would'a,
In between sips of alcohol,
Could'a should'a, would'a,
Rip torn would say.

With limp sails Rip cursed the rotten luck that had come in like a villian and snatched away what he felt was rightfully his.  He cursed Dennis Hopper, he cursed Jack Nicholson, he cursed booze, but most of all he cursed himself. . . so he kept on drinking.  After a few cult movies like Payday and The Man Who Fell to Earth, Rip was all but convinced that his career in acting had sputtered out to a stand-still.  He had had his chance, and he had missed it.

For years he lived with a scornful head turned towards the sky, and a heart buried deep within his bosom.  He tried and failed, had lived and died, and all within the span of a week. . .  If he could only go back to that bar, back to that day. . .  The tears were too much for him to continue.

But through the dark clouds of self-pity came a ray of light: directing.

Rip Torn tried his hand at it, directing the film The Telephone, in 1988. The film starred Whoopi Goldberg, and Rip found himself once again tickled by the fancy of ambition, and by the dream that he would one day be on top again.  He didn't mind that he would be behind the lens, he knew he would be good enough that his name alone would carry such a weight that his face would need to be seen, to quench the curious appetites of all of his fans.  Sometimes you've got to put a face on genius!  Though he was found to be better than average when it came to being on the stage, he knew he could find himself a piece of history with his 'eye.'

He was beginning to feel good again, his face carried a smile more often than not, and many persons began to notice that his breath no longer carried a hint of gasoline when he barked out orders.

Yes, fine.  Mighty fine.

But then the curse reared its head again, and Rip found himself arguing with Whoopi Goldberg, who often strayed from the script and improvised. On the polar end, Rip wished for her to stick to the script, but no matter how rigid he appeared, or what death he boiled in his eyes at her, she refused, and when it came down to it, the studios backed Whoopi.  This meant once again, Rip was out and on the curb.

Could'a, should'a, would'a,
In between sips of alcohol,
Could'a, should'a, would'a,
Rip Torn would say:
Could'a, should'a, would'a,
When he tried to grab a haul,
Could'a, should'a, would'a,
He never could find a way.

Rip Torn would continue on this way, dabbling in acting and directing, but never succeeding as he would like, often finding the memories to be sweeter than the actual thing.  He would never give up acting, for no real actor ever really does, instead doing silly comedy movies and anything that came his way.  Movies like Dodgeball and Men in Black, which granted, are pretty good movies, but are hardly the sort of thing a Broadway actor with extensive training wants on their resume.

And with each stinging job offer, so came the reminders of what once was, each one making the past seem that much more out of reach. Before long Rip Torn accepted it, and found solace in ole reliable.

The bottle.

These days, when he's not crashing his car into things (a taxi and a tractor,) he's organizing bank heists with his buddies Jack Daniels and Jim Beam.

On January 29, 2010, Rip Torn was arrested after he broke into a closed bank branch.  They found him laying on the floor, his shoes placed neatly next to him, the man deep in sleep.  When they woke him up he insisted that he thought he was in his home, despite the fact that the door was locked: so he just threw a brick through it.  They also found a gun on him, and was charged with carrying a weapon with out a permit, and carrying a weapon while intoxicated.

It seems clear that Rip Torn is operating on the belief that because he's old (79) and a celebrity, he can get away with anything short of murder. And he's proving it to be a much under utilized truth.  Betty White could drop trow and expose her ancient beaver to on coming traffic, and no one would say a thing, mainly because she's old, and shit, she's Betty White. (Most assholes would probably assume its another 'hilarious' SNL skit, I say assholes because SNL these days is anything but hilarious.)

Quite frankly, Rip Torn is a bad ass.  Not only is he a severe drinker, but his savagery has been seen by coworkers on the set.  During the filming of Maidstone, in 1970, Rip Torn went after the star and director of the film, Norman Mailer with a hammer.  A fight ensued, during which Norman Mailer chomped on Rip Torn's ear ala Mike Tyson.  And remember how I told you about he pulled a knife of Dennis Hopper?  Well Dennis was on The Tonight Show and mentioned this story, to which Rip Torn filed suit, claiming that it was really Dennis Hopper who pulled a knife on him. 

The ole switcheroo. . . Rip Torn was probably too drunk to even remember the truth.

Not only that but he's had several DUI's and has totally gotten away with it.  He's broken probation and turned his car into a potential killing machine more than once.

It is for his ultimate badassery and refusal to put down the bottle, even though he's nearly 80, that iR declares Rip Torn, regally retarded.

Rip Torn was born Elmore Rual Torn Jr.

Rip Torn has been married three times, and has 5 children.

Rip Torn has starred in 10 plays, and has even directed one himself.

Rip Torn may face up to a year in jail, after he was denied special probation, and the judge cited that he was arrested while intoxicated with a loaded weapon, which carries a mandatory 1 year sentence.

He's not acting drunk, he really is.

RESPEK

love,

iR

The Adventures of Evi and Randy Quaid

Randy and Evi's first adventure can be read here.  

They're laughing at the judicial system.

In April, Randy and Evi Quaid ran out on a hotel bill in California, and a court case much like a circus ensued, as Randy with a Santa's beard, and Evi with the eyes of a demented bird fought against their accusers. Golden Globes were presented as witnesses and were spoken to by Evi, and although no one had any idea what they had to do with the case, everyone knew one thing for sure: that these two were Fruity Loops. Loopy.  Crazy.  Insane.  Out there.  Wacky. . .  Retarded.  So naturally they lost their case, but celebrity status had saved them from any real punishment: they were required to do nothing but community service. . . But now, they've up and done it again, and this time, they've done a similar job on a hotel in Texas. . . Texas, where the boys of the Cibolo Creek Ranch gather now to tell stories of them, in the dirt and the dust and the boiling heat. . .

"I hear the Santa lookin' feller is real crazy."  The boy spat.  "They says he can act, but I saw him in that Chevy Chase movie t'other day in Ma's trailer.  Talk about a real goof."

"I hear he won a Golden Globe, and now all his wife does is talk to it."

"Yeah, I heard that."  Another said.

"What do you suppose an inanimerated objuct like that says?"

"Prolly nothin'."

"Then whys do you suppose she talks to it."

"Fer company.  Don't you know anything?  Crazy people always have to have something to talk to.  Most often its inanimerated objects, on account of them being so crazy.  Just like you said."

"You sure?"

"As sure as they's both crazy.  Look."  The boy pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.  "I hear em talking so I went to see for myself, and lookee here, its their bill.  And its got all kinds of strange requests. . ." He handed it to the other boy who looked at it in bewilderment.

"Five pounds of turkey. . . Four pounds of bacon. . ."  He read them off, one by one, slow and steady.  "Ten jars of mayonnaise. . . Seven towels. A bathrobe.  Fifteen pairs of socks. . . Eighteen quarts of whiskey. . . Five jars of pickles?  A hogs head?  A barrel of nails?  What for?  A hundred oranges. . . One hundred and fifty feet of rope?  A pick ax? Twenty copies of Vegas Vacation?  Do we even got most of this stuff?"

"No'm.  But its really somethin' aint?"

"Sure is. . ."

"But there's more."  The one boy smiled.  "'Parently the lady got some dirt on Dad and the hotel.  She said something silly like how she saved a'couple of camels from being destroyed by some 18 wheeler Fed Ex truck, and all the ranch hands just stood and laughed."

This is true.  In light of being sued once again for running up and out on a 24,000 dollar bill at the Cibolo Creek ranch with her husband, Evi decided to bring up a little dirt on the place, in hopes of it helping her case. According to Evi she saved two camels from being run over by a mad man Fed-ex employee in an eighteen wheeler, and as she did so, ranch hands working for the hotel just stood there and laughed. . . No one knows what this has to do with the case, but hell, she's Evi Quaid: she tried to use her husband's Golden Globe as a witness in their last trial. Fruity Loops man.

"Well if that aint the dumbest thing I ever heard."  The other boy said  He couldn't help but laugh, and he didn't like laughing much, on account of it sounding so funny.  "There aint no camels in Texas!"

This is true.  Back in the 1850's, they tried to bring camels to Texas, and boy was it a big failure.  You see horses were dying due to dehydration, and mules couldn't quite keep up either, so some smart doucher decided that perhaps camels would be the solution, but alas, they couldn't handle the rocky terrain, so the idea was scrapped.  The only camels in Texas are kept in 'zoo's,' they hardly roam around like feral dogs. . .

"I know it."  The boy laughed.  "But it gets better too.  'Parently my old man used Randy Quaid to attract business!"

The boys laughed.

"Who's Randy Quaid?"  One asked amongst the laughter, which of course only fueled the hilarity.

"'Xactly my point, boys.  If my old man put anything about Randy Quaid coming to this here establishment, the titled read:  SANTA CLAUSE IS COMIN' TO TOWN!"

Even more laughter.

"No, but seriously, who's Randy Quaid?"  The curious boy still pondered.

"Oh you ninnie, he aint nobody.  Nobody.  His old lady too.  Theys both nobodies.  But they surely do think they's somebody.  Like a Bawnie or a Clyyyde.  Little lady left some note in their room too, reads like some sort of a calling."

"A calling, like with the phone?"  One boy asked.

"No, like an emm-ohh.  I hear all the good robbers do it.  Listen here to this."  And he read it.

The Ballad of Evi and Randy

We came for the sun,

We came together,

We came not on the run,

For things to get much better,

Our fingers have told our tale,

Leaving very little up to guess,

How we did fail,

We really didn't, but regardless,

Father time came back again

And so we've built up a bill

And though we haven't got a friend

We've still got our pills

The gold man has seen it all

Just like the last season

But this time he will heed the call

And tell all of our reason

The boy folded it up with precision and put it in his pocket.

"Aint that somethin'?"  He asked.

"Yeah."  

"You ever heard a song like that?"

"Maybe from a dying bird."  One boy said.

"Hah, it aint nooo song.  It's a po-em, you dummies."

"That aint no poem.  I know a better one."

There's a place in France,

Where the naked ladies dance,

There's a hole in the wall so the boys can see it all,

But the girls don't care, they wear their underwear

Randy and Evi Quaid have simply lost it, their actions alone in their last court case were enough evidence to that very fact.  Yet somehow, the court didn't seem to acknowledge any of their antics.  Celebrity status has saved them from the ax of justice, but like so many other celebrities given the opportunity to redeem themselves, they've fucked that all up too. They've up and done exactly the same sort of thing they did in California, almost as if they were rockstars with a fondness for destroying hotel rooms.  They ran up and bill and made it quite clear to everyone at the hotel that Evi and Rany Quaid were in deed, in the building, and as a result made sure that they were treated like real stars.

So they were.  Room service the whole damn way, regardless of how strange the requests were.

And when things went sour and Evi 'failed' to pay the bill, they decided it was best to make it seem as if the hotel was ever so eager to have them both there, (because everyone wants a second-rate actor with a history of ripping off hotels visiting their establishments) that there would be no way that they could possibly be to blame for anything that happened. . .

YES... WE SERVE THIEVES, COME ON BY!

It isn't even like they were copping bars of soap and mini shampoos, or raiding the mini fridge to drink all the clear liquors so that they may replace them with simple tap water.  Nah, it aint anything like that.

Its a shit load of money, much as the case with the California hotel.  

They are certainly in need of real help.

It is in light of this new information, that iR strongly stands by its previous diagnosis of the Quaid's retardation.  iR again, declares Randy and Evi Quaid, regally retarded.

What happens next, only the courts can decide. . .

love,

iR

Because The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree: Jamie Lynn Spears

If you peel back the yellowed pages of history, you will see that sometimes human seed shouldn't scatter about like blown dandelions (make a wish now;) sometimes it shouldn't scatter about at all.

Look:

Mr. Barney O'Field Bridges hugs the damp earth of a foxhole as all the world shatters around him, scattering in explosions of sulphur (red-orange,) of dirt (brown,) and of human bone (white, dust.)  In homes along the horizon, riddled with bullet holes, some with bombed in roofs for the sun to peak in, the enemy reigns down Hell in tiny little metal cannisters. Furniture still occupies the impromptu bases of fire.  Dinner tables still house plates and forks set up for a meal that never comes, chairs still wait for expected guests that won't be visiting anytime soon, that is if at all. . . And calenders on the walls all flap the year: 1945.

And the whole damn world is burning.

Mr. Bridges and his squad has been directed to cut on through the occupied town; another mission vital to the destruction of the Nazi Menace.  Hitler's grip on Europe has been slowly peeled back since '41, one greedy finger at a time, and although the war is nearly almost over -he could feel it- he is still worried about dying.  So damn worried about dying in fact, that he gets himself shot.  Like a needle shot from a blow gun, a bullet skated the air, and some how he could see it, the muzzle flash, the bullet exiting, its path, heading, heading, heading right this way!, and entered his chest. . .

The rest Mr. Bridges doesn't like to talk about much -not that he really could anyway- thoughts of the war leave him so choked up he often wonders if he'll ever breathe again, and in in a way, looking at him, you can tell sometimes that he wishes he wouldn't.  When he's finally dried his eyes, he always picks up his story at the London hospital where he received care for his wounds.  After many weeks, his reverie there was broken by the joyous whisperings of an end to the war, and though his shoulder still burned with a hot coal the doctors seemed to have missed surely they missed it? and his head pounded, there was only one thing that cut through the pain finer than any concoction the modern medicine world had to offer: and that was Lillian Irene Portell.  She was a nurse there, and Barney just couldn't get enough of her.  After caring for him, she too, had developed a connection with him (as is common among wounded soldiers and the nurses who mother them,) and he felt she was a beautiful export of a bird he just had to have.

And when they were wed, he bought them a nice home in Mississippi with money from his G.I. Bill.  It was a nice little place, certainly a place to raise children, with a yard and a nice white fence lining the property. And like so many couples after the war, they proceeded to produce offspring.  Their work between the sheets would give them Sandra (1947,) Barry (1951,) and Lynne (1955.)

See the pages of history, crummy and yellow as they are?  Sometimes you've got to trace the retardation back to its source.  History stacked like rocks, one leading to the next, on to the next:

These offspring would migrate all over the country, heading off to wherever reason may take them, or fortune, or family, or simply fate.  In particular, Ms. Lynne Bridges would venture out to Louisiana, where on a hot day with an orange sun that floated in a blue river sky, she would meet for the very first time, a Mr. James "Jamie" Spears.  She found him charming, and enjoyed that he had a certain look to him; that of a total D-Bag.  This smooth talking douche of course, she would wed, and their wedding would be an extravagant affair that many of the people who had the luxury of attending would talk about for many years after; would be romantic enough to turn already bitter not-yet-wed fat chick into sobbing, guilty, eating machines; and most importantly, would be bright enough to put even the sun itself to shame.

With her maiden name shed, Lynne Spears' vagina would open like crevice of Hell and plague the world with three of the Devil's own Hell-spawn:

Bryan Spears

Britney Spears

and

Jamie Lynn Spears

Bryan would go on to live in obscurity, unknown to you until just now. (You're welcome.)  Aww shucks ma, 0 for 1.  Maybe the next one will give some pride to the Spears name? 

Britney of course would be an ex-Mouseketter with a mild singing career drowned head first in a sea of tabloids too retarded to even mention by name.  Nonetheless all corners of the world are still dripping wet from that printed nonsense, as nearly everyone already knows the whole story: a retarded husband, a couple of kids, a psychotic episode, and a battle lost to some electric clippers, oh and a divorce. . . Did I miss anything?

Maybe Jamie Lynn will be the good one?  Kids can be a roll of the dice after all, and some are privy to this, so they just spawn them a bunch of kids as the odds get better with more kids right?  If not this one, perhaps the next or the next?  We're eight mouths strong as it is dear!  Any more mouths and we'll starve!

Maybe?  A good start with a movie role. . . some time spent on Nickelodeon

Stacked like rocks, one leading to the next:

Maybe?

And as such, the failures of the first rock lead into the failures of the second, and the third, and so on and so forth. . . Until finally you reach the top, the whole hill of beans ending up with Jamie Lynn Spears:

How bout not at fucking all?  At the young age of sixteen, seemingly upset that her sister would have more attention that her, Jamie Lynn Spears gets herself pregnant, the father being a young man (Casey Aldridge) three years older than her. . .   And with that bun in the oven she effectively destroys all ties with her and Nickelodeon, and becomes a practical spokesperson for teen pregnancies. . .

Stuffed somewhere underneath her bed in her childhood room, her worn diary still lays, its secrets concealed behind a tiny locket:

 August 27th, 2007

Dear Diary,

Now that summer is ending, I worry about being able to spend more time with Casey.  He'll be heading off to college once summer is over, and I'm always busy over at Nick.  I'm just trying to get the most of him while I can.  I had sex with him last night for the first time.  We didn't have any protection, but we did it in a jacuzzi and it was my first time, and thats like 2 of the million ways you can prevent a pregnancy.  So we should be fine.

It was a magical night, we went and saw The Simpson's movie, and after we went to TGI Fridays and he paid for the whole thing!  Even with me around!  After that we went back to my house and somewhere in there we ended up in the jacuzzi.  Where he just stuck it in.

It was so magical.

(She drew hearts on the page, big blooming ones, and were drawn with such dedication that she had even picked out a separate pink pen for them.)

I think I love him. . .

Other ancient secrets, written in the clear and concise penmanship of a young teenage girl, told of Mother's silent depression (from raising nothing but hopeless, scum filled children,) of Sissy Britney's public image problem and the sisterly issues amongst herself and Britney, but never could she go a day without talking about the dream boat who totally knocked her up:

November 2nd, 2007

Dear Diary,

The father of that little bundle of joy growing inside of me, Casey, got a wonderful job in the city as a pipe layer.  He decided not to continue college at the start of the year, and got that job instead.  He says it pays well and I'm excited for both of our futures.

They seem really bright.  (lawl, yes Jamie, reaaaal bright, but I've got the pages of history before me, I can already see your future.  Should I tell you?  Shhhh, you'll have to wait.)

Even though that whole jacuzzi/first time thing didn't really work out.  I'm glad it didn't.  I want to be a mom.

On the other hand the paparazzi caught wind of the child.  I don't know how they found out or who told them.  They are really making quite a fuss about it.  Gosh, you'd think they'd never seen a pregnant 16 year old before!  I use to see em all the time at my school, when I use to go.  Brit says I'm lucky that Mom never forced me into a music career like Mom did with her, cause Brit always wanted a baby at 16 too, Mom just wouldn't let her.  Watched her 24/7.  I'm beginning to think she's right, you know what they say "nothing like a baby to bring a family together."  (Obviously she's never seen an episode of Maury, and besides, I would think that saying applies only to ADULTS.)

Casey is going to make a good daddy.

I love him.

Each and every disgusting entry ending with that tagline, "I love him." Until things went sour. . .

Many other entries chronicle her daily life, as somehow she managed to write in it daily, busy as she was.  More on Mother's depression, on Brits troubles with sanity, but none of these without mention of the Great Casey Aldridge, a proverbial knight in shining armor, and every entry ending with that same old and tired tagline.  Poor girl was just setting herself up for heartache. . . But maybe?  Her entries followed her life all the way up to the birth of her child, Maddie Brianna Aldridge, born on June 19, 2008  Babies havin' babies.

Like stepping stones, another stone to add to the stack:

A screaming bundle of joy the media and paparazzi absolutely had a fucking field day with.  OK! Magazine being the utter piece of shit that it is, paid one million dollars for the very first photos of baby Maddie. (Perhaps they should have named the baby Ka-Ching.)

Look a pregnant, stripper!

So life would be for the sinfully young couple.  Tangles with paparazzi and the media, as if raising a child while being a child wasn't hard enough. Jamie kept up with her diary entries, though she shed the old Hello Kitty one for a much more mature notebook, one befitting of a mother, and most of her daily ramblings consisted of constant updates on the baby, written with all the love a mother has for her child. . . Yet somewhere, things get hairy, and the usual uplifting feeling of being a mother succumbs to a much greater darkness, a hidden worry concealed somewhere deep down, where not even the media can touch it:

November 4th, 2009

Dear Diary,

Maddie said her first words today!  Dah-da!  I'm excited and thrilled, as is Casey.  Its such a joy to have her in our everyday lives, and I'm grateful to have my entire family behind me, helping take care of little Maddie.

I've been trying to get back with Nickelodeon, but they don't seem to be returning my calls, nor those of my agent.

I'm getting worried.  Casey is hardly around anymore, and it seems that he's not grown up enough to have a child. (No Kidding.)  I just don't know what to do anymore, but I'm sticking with my faith and my family.  He's always out there laying pipe.  Always laying pipe.  ALWAYS.  He never seems to have any time for me anymore.  I don't know what to do.

And I feel fat.  And I feel ugly.  

Despite the feelings of self-loathing most new moms feel, looking at themselves in the mirror and seeing where supple flesh gave way to extra weight and stretch marks, Jamie hinted on a calamity that at the time, she had no idea was slowly growing.  As it turns out, Casey, after donating his genes to the creation of new life, found that he was certainly big and manly enough to rape, fuck, make love to a sixteen year old, but his nuts weren't hairy enough to face the consequences and raise a child.  And so is the calamity that is being 19 and fucking retarded.

Naturally the relationship would slowly deteriorate, and talks of an engagement were muddled by exclamations that "We're both too young," (a little late for that kind of talk, don't you think?) and before long the two weren't even being official seen together.  Nine months after their baby, the two would call it quits, and Jamie would leave Casey for ever:

February 8th, 2009

Dear Diary,

I've had enough of Casey.  I'm absolutely tired of him.  I hate to think that I ever thought that he was 'the one.'  He hasn't taken any steps to become a mature adult about this, and he's older than me!  He still just wants to lay pipe and doesn't want to commit.

(Ask any man that age to do the same, and he'll look at you ask if you're asking him to put a gun to his head.)

I'm glad my family has supported me through all of this, and besides I don't really need Casey any way.  I've found myself a mature man, a man who's got a real job, and REAL goals.  And he cares about me and he treats me good, and doesn't care one bit that I already have a kid.

He's twenty-eight and he owns a big entertainment company in Kentwood, Los Angeles.  He's a real nice guy. . .

And as for Casey

I hate him.

The bliss shattered, that sickeningly sappy tagline traded in for one of hate.

With her relationship with Casey over, Jamie set her sights on a different kind of guy, a much more mature sort of gentlemen, so she started hooking up with a twenty eight year old guy named James Watson. . . He owns a company that installs multimedia (they install t.v's for corporations.)  Way to go Jamie, dumped you a plumber and hooked up with a high end T.V. guy.  Way to go. 

And so, the pages of history are always being written, one gummy page at a time. . . What comes next for little Jamie, and what of her daughter Maddie?  Will James finally realize the error of his ways and dump a bitch?  Will Maddie grow up to sell her body for hard drugs?  One can only wait and see, on our next episode of As The Retarded World Turns. . .

Jamie Lynn Spears suffers from a calamity that fortunately, the majority of the populous does not need to suffer under: she's been born a Spears. Somehow that name has come to mean some sort of a curse, as anyone bearing the last name 'Spears,' whether related to Britney and her clan or not, are considered poor mates in regards to genes, and are therefore are avoided at all costs. . . Even remote tribes in the thickest of jungles hear tales of the 'Spears Tribe,' and although by the time it reaches their ears Britney is a giant bald headed lizard monster, and her sister Jaime, a Tiny Yet Ferocious Baby Eater (by way of gossip of course, and the inaccuracies man is victim to whenever he speaks;) and know to keep as far away from them as possible.

It is a curse forged with a name, and made stronger by the calamities of each heir, generation after generation.

For surely Britney had a bright future, as a Mouseketter, until she got into her teens.  A time when it seems, all Spears women's brains go haywire, as if some important module burns out, that ever important regulator that keeps all the chemicals on an even keel, and after all that follows is utter retardation. . . For how else could one explain Britney's early work - a teenager selling sex to old men, and her later work, a retarded selling sex to retards. . .  How else could one explain the insanity, the head shaving, the husband, the kids, the poor parenting, the, the everything?

And surely Jamie had a bright future too, or at least not yet tainted by any wrong doings of her own.  A respectable career in kids television, and then teenager television (such strata exists these days,) and then what next? Maybe movies, maybe singing?  Who the fuck knows?  Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

No one knows because that old and rotten Spears retardation had to creep up into the picture, and little Jamie had to spread her legs and gets herself pregnant, at sixteen.  That same old rotten retardation that started way back, even before world war two, even before Mr. Hitler and Mr. Bridges.  Traced all the way back to a single drop of blood, to a single blood line of regal, yes regal blood.  Back through history, through inbreeding and war, all the way back to a family of English and Maltese blood.  For yes, Lynne Spears, mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn, had a paternal great grandfather who apparently was a big deal in England and had such blood running through his veins.

As such it all traces back to regal blood.  The blood of yes, royal retards.

It is tragic to think that such a calamity can strike an entire bloodline, and furthermore that said bloodline can somehow find away to survive over the centuries, but it seems the only good thing the Spears clan is good at, is getting pregnant.  

Was it all really a mistake?  Perhaps.  People make mistakes, but to give this explanation would be to allow the poor girl to make yet another mistake, to have yet another child, and perhaps yet another one. . . For as retarded as they are, they still are competitive, and I've got a slight itch that says lil ole Jamie Lynn Spears is gonna out do big sis after all.  A massive train wreck years in the making.

And it is for these reasons, in particular her diluted  royal blood that iR declares Jamie Lynn Spears, regally retarded.

*Due to the gonzo nature of iR, it is necessary that we straighten out the facts. . . I guess.  Anyway, other lulz can be found here.

Jamie was born April 4th, 1991.  That makes her, uh... 19.

She was on Nickelodeons All That when the show totally sucked balls, and was the main character in Zoey 101.

When she was impregnated she was only 16, at the time, whereas Casey was anywhere from 18 to 19, which stirred a lot of debate, and made many people particular of the details. . . If they had performed the deed in Casey's native state of Louisana, and he was 18 at the time, then its all good. . . However if he was 19 at the time, its considered a felony, and for such a deed he could face up to 10 years in prison.  LAWL  

People gave up however when they found most people just plain don't give a shit.

When she was pregnant, paparazzi did go crazy.  Lots of haters said it was like promoting teenage prenancy, but they just hatin' - they wish they could get laid at 16 and get preggers.

9 months after the baby came, Casey and Jamie really did break up.  Surprise surprise.

Later, she really did hook up with a 28 year old.  Ha - take that Casey, I'm with a dude ten years my senior, what you got sukka?  The Spears family had only this to say about it "He seems like a nice guy.

You can read Jamie Lynn Spears blog, if you want, but for some reason there's no mention of banging old dudes and raising a baby. :(

And what of this?

I've seen porno's that start out like this.

love,

iR

Randy and Evi Quaid, A Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde?

In the halls of justice, where the heavy axe of democracy swings. . . Where wooden benches like church pews sit gazing blindly into the golden eyes of an eagle emblazoned on the belly of the judge's bench. . .

Randy Quaid undergoes trial.

I sit between a greedy writer and an obese man, the latter of which is even now sneaking nibbles on a breakfast pastry. I can smell it, the sugar I mean, and that mixed with the aftershave and coffee of all those around me makes for a real assualt on my empty stomach - empty save for a beer or two. I should have eaten first. The beer burns my guts and the man of the hour walks in, Randy Quaid himself, with wife in tow. For a man on trial he looks ridiculously calm, looking more like the Prom King with his Queen next to him - in this case his crazy Queen, her arm placed between the crux of his, the two parading down the aisle and through the gate to his attorney, for their first dance as King and Queen. Randy sits down next to the attorney, his wife next to him, three ducks all in a row. His wife looks like a strange bird, her face contorted into a constant grin, her hair greased up and all over the place. A simple creature with small tiny bones and a small tiny face, yet behind those eyes is a circus that performs year round, and its always entertaining her judging by how she's always smiling. Trapeze artists do flips in her head, she smiles and Randy hardly even looks at her. He's accustomed to it too and is furthermore far more preoccupied with a satchel he had brought in on his shoulder. He keeps gazing down into it, his lips moving, telling crazy secrets, telling crazy truths, telling 'everyone one of them' bastards off.

The judge enters, everyone like the sunrise, the judge sits, everyone like the sunset. The stenographer comes to life as the trial proceeds, her record the only thread of reality running through the courtroom. . .

JUDGE OCHOA: Randy and Evi Quaid, you have been charged with defrauding the San Ysrido Ranch, in Santa Barbra, California, to the amount of ten thousand dollars, and in turn conspiracy, and burglary. . . How do you plead?

RANDY QUAID: Didn't do it.

EVI QUAID: I was there - yep - didn't do it. We paid you see, we paid! I've got the card right here! Went -swoop- right through the machine and everything.

Mastercard she says, amazed, and with a quick tug from her purse she pulls out the credit card in question. In a fit of madness she proceeds to press it into her forehead until it sticks.

EVI QUAID: See! See!

See! she keeps shouting, while the judge's gavel pounds out his disgust. . .

JUDGE OCHOA: Order! Order!

Order! he keeps shouting, Order! Order! bouncing off the walls and through the air like pure gravel. After long Randy gets into it too, having just recently woken up to the sound of Order! Order! pounding in his ears like his own heartbeat. He had been daydreaming, a smile on his face, his head aglow with the images of squirrels on water skis. . . he had never seen a squirrel ride water skis before, more or less a whole Gawd-Dang-Fleet of em' and it was all so peaceful and all so funny, but that Blasted Gavel, that Infernal Racket! His eyes blink open like the revolving numbers of a pin ball machine, and his mouth goes to work, as the stenographers machine, like a metronome keeps the beat. . .

RANDY QUAID: I've even got a witness! He was there the whole damn time! The whole damn time!

Randy reaches down and pulls out his 1987 Golden Globe Award for his part in a television drama about Lyndon B. Johnson called LBJ: The Early Years. He holds it up above his head, and it reflects in the sunlight, like a beacon of Randy's innocence. he revels in it, he stares up at it, his lips curled back in a wicked smile. . . And Evi with her See! See! and the judge with his disgusted gavel, the stenographers machine, all beating together in a cacophony of noise and utter madness.

RANDY QUAID: I'm innocent! Golden Globes don't lie!

JUDGE OCHOA: Order! God! Damn it! Order! Damn it! Order!

The court room ceases, the madness cut by the bladed words of the judge, cut just like a string. He eases himself back into his seat, lets his gavel fall over dead. He's embarrassed by his outburst, but he had just about had enough of these two ninnies, and rightfully so. Since their initial arrest, the couple posted bail, and then proceeded to miss their first court date, and then three more after each rescheduling. It has been a long ordeal that has cemented Randy Quaid as a real fucking psycho, something which the Actor's Equity Association knows full well - for in 2008 they banned Randy Quaid from the American Actor's Labor Union and fined him more than 81,000 dollars after he "physically and verbally abused" all 26 members of a Broadway play he was headlining. Like a champ Randy played it off like they just didn't understand him, that he was just "being artistic."

Yet no matter how you look at it, smacking a bitch is smacking a bitch. . .

Aside from those questioning his sanity, his ordeal with the law and subsequent disappearance led many to believe that Randy Quaid had died, and combed the coast looking for his dead body. When he showed up to court the vultures of Hollywood with hanged heads went back to whatever stoop it is they occupy, waiting for the next victim. . . Word is that Randy Quaid and his wife were scumming around the country while on the run, living in rat holes and abandoned mines, feeding off of vermin and whatever they could find. Hell, there are even rotten tales of a man with a Santa beard (Randy) and a crazy wife (Evi) swooping into towns and scooping up children to take back to whatever hellish den they originated from, to clean the screaming child of his bones and drain him of his precious blood.

The stenographer types out in verbatim:

JUDGE OCHOA: It is advised that the defense gets a hold of its clients before I throw you all out for contempt of court!

The defense recoils, the attorney takes his clients into his guidance and silences them with his sanity and judgment. He instructs them for a few minutes, talking to his clients as if he were explaining some horrible event to a couple of children who happened to witness it; he was kind, forgiving, and spoke rather gravely in simple terms the events that were to follow "if they didn't obey and 'play nice.'" And all with a rotten smile on his face. He nods silently to the judge.

JUDGE OCHOA: Good, now, how do you plead? And the simple answer. . . please.

RANDY / EVI QUAID: Not guilty.

The court room eases. The air gives way to silence and no longer seems hard to breathe. Even the fat man next to me feels it necessary to ease his belt, which strains to keep its hold on his pants in a constant tug of war with gravity. His stomach threatens gastric disturbances and to keep him from bursting I try not to look at him. They say looks can kill. Instead I concentrate on Evi and Randy, and my head rings with a rhyme, the story of Bonnie and Clyde:

They don't think they're too smart or desperate,
They know that the law always wins;
They've been shot at before,
But they do not ignore
That death is the wages of sin.

Some day they'll go down together;
They'll bury them side by side;
To few it'll be grief--
To the law a relief--
But it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.

They were the words of Bonnie Parker herself, and the same words that fools who believe in a thing like true love often quote. Its romantic, its brutal. Its nothing like real life. Its for people who fail to realize that the notion of being buried side by side with the one you love, means very little to worm food. I wondered what Evi would write, what epitaph she would frame in rhyme for her and her love Randy if she had the chance:

We tread the Earth exposed and naked,
Hiding amongst the leaves and thus;
We know we're incomplete,
And when we think to weep,
The country just laughs at us.

We know all our lines,
We've got them handy,
And when word gets 'round,
And we together go down,
You'll never forget Evi and Randy.

And surely, they will go down.

Randy's celebrity status isn't strong enough to deter any stiff sentences from being doled out by a star struck judge with constellations in his eyes. Even during his prime when the money came in and he wasn't exactly the talk of the town - but still folks were talking, he couldn't pull many strings, at least not as high up as when it came to matters involving the law. Furthermore family connections had slowly frayed over the years, and the recent press wasn't doing much for his image in the eyes of those of similar blood. So, like a cornered rat, he did the only thing a man wild with fear and weapons to fight but no real enemy to strike can do in a situation like that: he took off running. . .

Play your music stenographer:

JUDGE OCHOA: Now, Mr. and Mrs. Quaid. . .

RANDY QUAID: It was all Dennis' fault. He just couldn't take the jealousy. It ate him up for years, my wife knows. . . He was always envious that I managed to wrangle such a catch as her. Aint that right hon?

JUDGE OCHOA: You do realize you're under oath, Mr. Quaid?

RANDY QUAID: Are you implying Dennis aint jealous of me? Cause he sure as shit is - you ever see The Rookie? Can't hold a flame to a single Vacation movie - not a one- and that aint no lie.

JUDGE OCHOA: I will not have such language in this court. Now you're treading a fine line, another bit of profanity and you'll find yourself in jail - and I'll have a nice little cage for that bird of a wife of yours, too.

Evi cooed, as dumb as a dove.

As the court room was slowly begging to lose control over itself, the one true part had already been said: it was Dennis' fault, or at least in Randy's mind. For it seems that Dennis, aside from being a 'jealous prick' was also a big fan of prostitution, and often took women of the night to the San Ysrido Ranch. This endeavor proved profitable for the hotel as Dennis was a generous tipper, especially when shitfaced, and to Dennis hookers and liquor went together like peanut butter and jelly so he was almost always good and oiled up. This relationship between Dennis and the Ranch as his den of iniquity had eventually blossomed into a genuine friendship between Dennis and the owner of the hotel, one which hurt Randy as much as it aided Dennis.

And just like Dennis, not to share - not to share anything. . . Not the Ranch, not the prostitutes - not a damn thing. . .

People sometimes forget that jealousy, whether deserved or unleashed unfairly, can sometimes be a dangerous thing. For some it leads to horrible deeds Cain would be proud of, but for Randy it meant throwing a temper tantrum in a hotel room, destroying its insides during a whirlwind of emotion, and then skipping town when the rage subsided and he was able to think enough to know he had no way of paying for any of the damage.

The stenographer:

RANDY QUAID: Not a God damn thing! Not the hookers! Not the blow! Not a God damn thing! That jealous bastard. . . Could never stand to be in the shadow of big bro! . . . Not a God damn thing!

He swelled with anger and turned as cherry as his rose colored hair - the result of a dye job and new identity. The judge had them escorted out of court, and as they were pushed along like cattle, Evi sang out her best blue jay imitation - a cackle that rang in the ears of all those around her. Miraculously, their attorney managed to have the trial extended, and will convene once again in April. . .

But what happens next?

Well only time will tell for this couple of retard royalty. . .

iR