• C.E. Smith

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It is a glorious time to be mildly obsessed with the wacky international shenanigans of Randy and Evi Quaid, whose craziness was recently profiled in-depth and up-close by two major publications.

Sample paragraph from Vanity Fair's "The Quaid Conspiracy":

I found the Quaids sitting in their car outside a Chinese tearoom on a block glowing with red and yellow neon lights. Nobody was around. It was night. Their car, a black Prius, was crammed with stuff—clothes, coats, shoes, papers, a pillow, blankets, and an excitable Australian cattle dog named Doji, who was hoarse from barking while he was in the pound when his owners were being detained by Canadian immigration. The car smelled of fast food and dog pee and Randy’s cigars. I asked the Quaids if they were living in their car. “Only on nights when we’re too terrified to leave our stuff or don’t feel secure,” Evi said.

Sample paragraph from Esquire's "With Randy Quaid in a Windowless Room":

They will be killed in one of three ways, [Evi] says. (She does most of the talking.) She has interrupted the killers practicing. "Staging scenarios," she calls them. Dry runs, rehearsals, blocking for a gruesome play.

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Their most likely end, the Quaids believe, will involve knives. Randy will be drugged in his sleep—"They know he has sleep apnea," she says—and Evi will be stabbed to death. Then they will put the knife in his hand. He will wake up and be locked away forever. Or he will kill himself in his terror and grief. The Star Whackers have stolen some of his songs—he writes sad, introspective songs on more crumpled sheets of paper—and the killers will lay one out on the nightstand or the kitchen counter. "Randy's songs read like suicide notes," Evi says. "That's how the cops will read them."

Go nuts.