Who the hell is Randy?

True Crime Kent is hands down my favorite podcast. It’s what happens when somebody looks at a two-hour true crime story and says, “Yeah, but what if these motherfuckers knew EVERYTHING?”

You’ll start an episode thinking, “I wonder who murdered this guy?” and 45 minutes later you know the victim’s childhood trauma, the killer’s credit score, his favorite gas station snack, what his neighbor’s cousin drove in 1997, what kind of cigarettes his uncle smoked, and somehow the exact weather conditions the day his parents conceived him.

Kent doesn’t leave out details. He hunts them down, interrogates them, checks their credit history, contacts their next of kin, and then spends 37 minutes explaining why that detail probably doesn’t matter—but now I NEED to know it.

He’ll tell you a guy got murdered in 1987, and before you find out who did it, you’ll know what the victim ate for breakfast, what his dad did for a living, why his cousin got divorced, the population of his hometown, the economic impact of the local lumber industry, and why some random asshole named Randy getting a DUI in 1973 is somehow CRITICAL to understanding the case.

Six hours later, my wife is asking if I’m coming to bed and I’m like:

“I CAN’T. KENT JUST FOUND RANDY.”

Other true crime podcasts: “Here’s what happened.”

True Crime Kent: “Alright motherfuckers, you’re gonna need some context…”

And that context apparently starts three generations before anybody involved in the fucking murder was born.

Other podcasts give you the facts.

Kent gives you the facts, the backstory of the facts, the childhood of the facts, the facts’ tax returns, and three completely unrelated facts that somehow become relevant four hours later.

By the time the killer gets arrested, I’m not even surprised. I’ve known the son of a bitch so long I’m wondering if I should put money on his commissary.

By the end of the episode, I don’t just know who committed the crime—I know enough about everyone involved to claim them as dependents on my taxes.

And somehow, despite knowing the episode is longer than my average work shift, I still hit play thinking, “Hell yeah, I’ve got time.”

I absolutely do not have time.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ — If I ever get murdered, don’t call the cops. Call Kent. The cops might figure out who killed me, but Kent will figure out why my killer’s second-grade substitute teacher getting divorced in 1989 set the whole fucking thing in motion.

And somewhere around hour seven…