The "Wayne Lee Ray" Theorem.

It was a regional thing, an observation by a pundit.  "It's always someone like that--one of those, a Wayne, Lee, or Ray, or combination of all three."  The baddies on the news, that is, the assassins, mass-murderers and other that seem to go on to infamy, a "Wayne Lee Ray", a three-named angry little Napoleon that reaches out in dissipation, hoping for a moment of fame, infamy, or even satisfaction by doing something remarkable in the common discourse, such as an assassination of a famous person or something else that pockmarks history.

The theorem was postulated by a radio personality(WBT in Charlotte), a libertarian that had a popular radio spot only on one station.  He seemed a free thinker, but also conscious to some extent of shocking people; he hanged up the phone several times on the Charlotte Motor Speedway owner, for the sake of a point, and to seemingly maintain a veneer of integrity in disagreeing a point.

A commercial for a Hyundai dealership, he did; so he was not without means or pull, and the big station had a good talk radio market share before the syndicated boys came for his time slot, a dunderheaded Limbaugh clone lined-up to complain their way into the top slot.

"Train-wreck tv" by the admission of FNC on-air people, the litany of complaints that pass for entertainment, and the endless pandering to one sliver of the demographic: who they think cares, but then, you pander to the people that draw advertisers, and people the spend money draw advertisers.  Its such to wonder that people consuming that sort of media spend money at all, besides stockpiling silver or something, something suitably fearmongering and counter-culture, busy not doing that "in a small town".

"Its always one of those guys: Wayne, Lee, or Ray."  Three names, triple the dissipation, call him what his momma and grandmomma called him, get WBTV to interview the parents.

I remember another trope of personifying cars, such that, "an SUV injured a man", and so forth, the endless quest for the bleed that leads, for what sells, and here I am, but ten fingers and impetus towards telling you what-for.

Erin's drug-addicted lover, a keiler without a victim, having not decided which Hill to die on, but putting a pretty good quick burn to his own reserves, and making his life an epic poem dedicated to dissipation.