Traffic School

In this deliriously unhinged episode of Traffic School Powered by The Advocates, the universe immediately collapses into pure Idaho-flavored pandemonium as Lieutenant Crain, the patron saint of last-minute dial-ins, fails to materialize in the studio and instead broadcasts from the taxpayer-funded road beast he’s steering through a blizzard like a man who has made peace with frostbite and municipal liability. Meanwhile Viktor Wilt, the only anchor keeping this show from drifting into an FM radio Bermuda Triangle, valiantly tries to wrangle topics while clinging to his brand-new Advocates-issued guitar—a mystical instrument so powerful it screams, “LEARN A CHORD, COWARD,” every time he looks at it. The chaos escalates immediately as they tackle Elon Musk’s divine proclamation that Tesla drivers can now text and drive, prompting Crain to laugh like a man who has written so many citations that irony is his love language. Then comes the Canadian Santa Parade Crisis, where anti-Christmas gremlins post signs that psychologically nuke children along the route, and Crain—ever the constitutional cowboy—reminds everyone that the First Amendment protects even joy-sabotaging weirdos.Suddenly Crazy Carl manifests from the ether like a cryptid drawn to the smell of static electricity, asking whether flashing headlights can hack traffic lights like some drive-thru wizardry. Crain informs him he’s been placebo-ing himself like a man who believes Mountain Dew can cure gout. Peaches calls in next, trembling like a frightened woodland creature, asking if he should let road-ragers flash their headlights behind him until their retinas explode; Crain calmly tells him to embrace it, for he must not exceed the speed his soul can handle. Then Amber from Mountain View Hospital arrives wielding the best question of the century: whether you’re better off hitting an animal instead of swerving, and whether that advice applies to humans. Crain answers with veteran wisdom: moose are boss-level enemies that enter your windshield like large, angry furniture; squirrels are optional collateral; humans should not be center-punched under any circumstances.As if the portal to madness has fully opened, someone else calls to recount how a state trooper tried to impound his motorcycle because his friend played Fast & Furious on the highway shoulder. Crain roasts District 5 troopers so hard they probably felt a disturbance in the Force. Viktor then dives into the political sign theft wars, accusing—very lovingly—his own dentist of moonlighting as a midnight sign bandit, tiptoeing through Idaho Falls like a fluoride-scented raccoon with a vendetta. Crain explains that most signs disappear because volunteers plant them like invasive species on private property, and business owners promptly yeet them into oblivion. More callers erupt like gremlins in a dryer: questions about traffic flow, impeding laws, slippery roads, back injuries, and why Idahoans drive 25 mph in a 35 as if every street is a funeral procession for common sense.By the end, Viktor and Crain sound like two men who have fought the Hydras of Idaho traffic law using only sarcasm and thin radio signal strength. They sign off with weary triumph, promising to return next week when, surely, the state of Idaho will invent new stupid things to do with their vehicles.

This episode doesn’t begin so much as it erupts—a chaos gremlin of a morning where Viktor shuffles into the studio sounding like he smoked an entire Trans-Siberian Orchestra fog machine the night before. His chest hurts, his voice is crunchy, and he’s 80% sure he either caught a virus or is actively allergic to lasers. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Crane walks in fresh from a predawn Idaho Transportation Department meeting where they discussed—very calmly, presumably—the art of reducing public complaining. He’s still thawing out from the cold, foggy, murder-movie morning weather while Viktor keeps whining like he’s the standout guest on WebMD’s Greatest Hits.Before they can finish arguing about Christmas music launching before Thanksgiving like a sonic holiday ambush, callers start assaulting the phone lines with problems that swing wildly between “mildly concerning” and “should probably involve an attorney.”CALLER #1: Jason, the certified Speed Goblin, demands to know how often radar guns get calibrated because he insists his governor taps out at 105 and therefore his 106-mph ticket MUST be a lie. Crane explains tuning forks, calibration cycles, and factory settings like a patient dad explaining why you can’t put fireworks in the microwave, while Viktor tries not to cough up the ghost of TSO’s fog machine. Jason casually admits he was blasting past blocked exits like he was speedrunning his own felony, laughed about being flipped off 13 times, and then ends the call with: “I only go 20 over now.” A true scholar.CALLER #2: Kizzy arrives with the energy of a woman who has SEEN THINGS. She recounts a saga involving lost power steering, a melted wrist brace (!), and the revelation that she is missing three bones in her wrist because she was RUN OVER FIVE YEARS AGO. Crane—professionally, respectfully—jokes whether those bones disappeared along with her power steering. Viktor audibly cringes into another coughing fit. The whole thing sounds like the plot of a gritty indie film called The Wrist and the Fog Line. Kizzy wants to know whether the officer who detained her for two and a half hours was justified, and Crane basically says, “Ma’am, legally? I have discretion. Personally? That cop should’ve used common sense and maybe some empathy.” And then, in the most chaotic twist, he adds, “But if you want harassment…we know some guys,” which Viktor cackles at like a gremlin.ENTER CRAZY CARL: Humanity’s most chaotic neutral. He calls in polishing aluminum—whatever that means—and immediately asks: “So uh… when does speeding become a FELONY?” Like he’s shopping for a new hobby. Crane explains that you need to actually maim someone for that, which Carl reacts to like someone just told him the Wendy’s Frosty machine is broken. Then Carl casually describes doing a seven-lane lane change on a California freeway trying to get to a Metallica concert—his wife screaming, cars scattering, his heart singing like a Norse god with a learner’s permit. The man talks like he believes traffic laws are optional suggestions created by cowards.CALLER #4: Bennett, who has one simple question: why the hell is lane splitting legal anywhere? Viktor and Crane immediately roast California for hating motorcyclists and/or humanity in general. Bennett sips a White Claw during the call, mid-rant, creating the first known instance of brunch rage driving philosophy.CALLER #5: Kiersey beams in with sunshine energy so violently cheerful that even Viktor, who’s dying, is like “I wish I had that enthusiasm.” She asks about the new diamond interchange in Rexburg—specifically, whether you can turn right on red. Crane hits her with the sternest, most spiritually disappointed “NO” about the red arrow. Viktor cheers for rule followers. Somewhere, the FCC applauds.CALLER #6: Another caller double-checks the diamond interchange rules—cue Crane repeating “red arrow means NO” like he’s teaching kindergarten but with more existential dread. She demands officers be stationed there to stop rule breakers immediately. Crane and Viktor laugh because BLESS HER HEART she is clearly the patron saint of Traffic Citations.CALLER #7: Tate, who is stuck at the Rigby stoplight of doom—a cursed traffic signal that apparently operates on vibes instead of sensors. He asks how long he has to wait before he can run it. Crane explains the law, Viktor moans about being trapped by lights that never change, and Tate confesses he flashes his brights at it like he’s trying to flirt with a malfunctioning robot.Between calls, Viktor tattles on an Idaho Falls police officer for touching the white line and Crane roasts him for being the neighborhood snitch. The two of them spiral into a back-and-forth about lane integrity, fog lines, and how Viktor is exactly the guy who would take a screenshot of your expired tabs and email your mother.The whole episode plays out like a surreal small-town radio circus where every caller arrives with a confession, a complaint, or an unhinged driving story that absolutely should have resulted in someone losing their license—but instead becomes a communal therapy session with jokes, laughter, and the faint sound of Viktor wheezing in the background.By the end, the episode isn’t a traffic advice show. It’s a full-blown chaotic highway cult meeting—complete with lasers, wrist injuries, outlaw lane-changing, White Claw philosophy, vigilante tattling, and a lieutenant who oscillates between public servant and stand-up comedian. It is pure, law-encrusted, festive, fog-enhanced insanity—and easily one of the most unhinged installments of Traffic School yet.

In this landmark episode of Traffic School, the universe split open like a malfunctioning piñata as Viktor Wilt and Lieutenant Crain reconvened after Crain’s mysterious week-long vanishing act, allegedly involving a river, a warm camper, and the type of marital bliss that feels suspiciously like witness protection. The show immediately spirals into pandemonium when Crazy Jay calls in to congratulate Victor for still being alive — a statement that, somehow, is not sarcastic. Jay proceeds to describe his coma experience with the emotional tone of a man discussing breadsticks at Olive Garden, setting the tone for the day: everyone has questions, and none of them should be answered by licensed adults.Before Viktor can blink, another caller materializes sounding like a broken fax machine trapped in a llama stampede, kicking off a segment that can only be described as “public access fever hallucination.” Viktor attempts patience, fails instantly, threatens to combust, and awards the caller the ceremonial Lonely Single Clap of Disappointment.Moments later, the duo pivots seamlessly into a full-scale cultural reevaluation of whether “Linus and Lucy” is a Christmas song, a Thanksgiving song, or just the soundtrack for people who think sentimental nostalgia is a personality trait. Lieutenant Crain, now East Idaho’s musical authority by decree, declares it Thanksgiving-only, banishing it from all Christmas playlists with the seriousness of a federal order.Then chaos erupts as a caller with a three-part legal dissertation phones in from the battleground that is the Life in Idaho Falls Facebook page. This leads to explanations about emergency vehicle protocol, school bus standoffs, funeral procession etiquette, and the delicate art of not interrupting a line of mourning cars unless you enjoy being spiritually hexed by strangers.But the episode reaches its true apex when a man — later identified as Brandon, but briefly cosplaying as Raoul Duke from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas — demands to know whether a grumpy Texan can enforce a homemade 10 MPH speed limit on a private driveway using only a four-wheeler and intimidation. The discussion immediately devolves into hypothetical cowboy justice, driveway diplomacy, and the question, “Can the police legally ticket you on private land?” Answer: no. “Can the owner beat you with a shovel?” Answer: probably, and with enthusiasm.From there, callers begin oscillating wildly between highly technical questions about bridge weight limits and people who clearly dialed after being hit in the head with a decorative coconut. Viktor confesses he’s been deep-diving bridge-collapse conspiracy websites at 2AM. Crain gives actual helpful insight. And then someone asks about fingernail polish longevity, which somehow turns into biker bars, sledgehammer thumbs, and domestic manicure politics.By the time the show ends, the audience has learned:– How to legally bypass a bus without becoming a neighborhood villain– Why you shouldn’t abandon your car halfway onto an off-ramp like a confused possum– That Crain has never seen Fear and Loathing but absolutely should– And that Viktor possesses the spiritual energy of a raccoon given responsibility it never asked for.This episode isn’t a show. It’s a roadside attraction built out of phone calls, mispronounced names, public confusion, and Lieutenant Crain wondering — out loud — whether any caller today has fully functioning brain cells. It’s Traffic School at its most bewildering, its most vibrant, and its most unintentionally educational.

This week’s Traffic School wasn’t a radio show — it was a supernatural roadside séance hosted by Viktor Wilt and Lieutenant Crain, beamed straight from the frostbitten edge of Idaho reality. It starts calmly, like a cup of lukewarm gas station coffee: Viktor complains about his garage being a hoarder’s tomb, a frozen labyrinth of junk preventing him from achieving the sacred dream of a frost-free windshield. Lieutenant Crain, ever the philosopher-cop, prescribes a two-word solution: Yard Sale. But not a normal yard sale — Viktor’s plotting an existential purge on Facebook Marketplace. “First come, first served, take what you can carry, no returns.” Suddenly the show sounds less like morning radio and more like Mad Max: Suburban Edition.From there, it mutates into a buddy comedy about chaos and civic decay. Peaches — their off-screen chaos gremlin — gets dragged into the conversation as the Halloween jester of the apocalypse, parading around costume parties with his “lady,” probably near a Spirit Halloween dumpster. Then Viktor casually drops that he “saved the human race” yesterday. No context, no details, just a proclamation of biblical proportions wedged between jokes about mayoral elections and frostbite. Lieutenant Crain, baffled but loyal, agrees that yes, Viktor is a natural-born hero — though tragically, he missed filing for mayor “by a few minutes,” a metaphor for his entire life.Then, in a moment of cracked brilliance, the show veers into political therapy. Viktor admits he and Crain disagree on literally everything politically but still manage to be friends, setting up one of the strangest yet most wholesome detours in radio history. Crain admits his wife insists he stay friends with Viktor because “he needs one.” This tender Hallmark moment gets immediately interrupted by a spam call mid-segment, which they take on air, mocking the robo-voice like two kids prank-calling the IRS.And then — Traffic School begins. Peaches leaves a note asking if it’s illegal to fake your own death to see who shows up at your funeral, and Lieutenant Crain answers this with deadly sincerity. Apparently, it’s legal if you just want to feel something, but not if you’re dodging debt. “You can fake your death for emotional closure,” Viktor summarizes, “just not to beat the IRS.” From there, they spiral into the great Ding-Dong Ditch Debate of 2025. A woman on Facebook posted kids’ photos like they were wanted criminals for ringing her doorbell, and the duo spends a solid 10 minutes dissecting how society has lost its mind. Crain tells a story about being shot at with a 12-gauge while toilet-papering a farmer’s house as a teen — “we thought he was aiming for us, but he was just firing warning shots into the night sky.” Viktor laughs so hard he nearly derails the station feed.Callers flood the line. Carl shows up to thank them for “free plugs,” which Viktor immediately monetizes, pretending to invoice him live on air. Then the subject shifts to snow tire law, with Crain somehow unsure whether Idahoans can legally use studs — until he Googles it and realizes winter technically lasts from October to May. “That’s half the year,” Viktor growls, “our state’s in a permafrost contract with Satan.”Brandon calls next — a philosophical road warrior with two burning questions: one about unlined country roads and another about what happens if you’re attacked by wasps while driving. Viktor, nearly in tears, declares that no one can pass a sobriety test sober, let alone while being assaulted by hornets. Crain, trying to hold the show together, solemnly explains “officer discretion” while Viktor cackles, repeating “I know my cop jargon!” like a man on trial.Then a child calls to ask if anyone’s ever ding-dong ditched a police station. Crain admits yes — once, back east — and the desk sergeant “did exactly what we tell people not to do: ran outside and shook them.” Everyone laughs like madmen. The show’s no longer about law or safety — it’s about human absurdity itself.Jeremy, next caller, asks about driving a 1952 Ford tractor in the ISU homecoming parade. The question somehow devolves into a discussion about Chinese farmers, parade snacks, and Viktor pressing the wrong button on the soundboard while Crain laughs so hard he can’t breathe. By the time Patrick calls about speed limits in nighttime construction zones, the show’s derailed into metaphysical chaos. Viktor’s accusing the lieutenant of staring him down, Crain’s mocking a caller’s “response time,” and the soundboard’s screaming random noises like a haunted CB radio.By the end, Traffic School feels less like traffic law and more like a fever dream where a cop, a DJ, and an unseen trickster named Peaches host an improvised survival seminar for small-town America. Between lectures on frostbite, fake funerals, ding-dong ditch warfare, and wasp-induced DUI tests, Viktor and Lieutenant Crain create something more powerful than news or entertainment — a broadcast from the edge of sanity itself. It’s chaos radio at its finest: unhinged, unstoppable, and completely Idaho.

This week’s Traffic School episode was a caffeine-fueled descent into microphone chaos, cowboy confessions, vehicular disasters, and livestock litigation — a full-blown Idaho fever dream masquerading as public service radio. It began with broken chairs, cursed microphones, and Lieutenant Crain being forced to co-host amid technical ruin and laughter so thick it could clog a carburetor. Then Viktor — fingernails painted and spirit unbroken — announced he’d soon shave his beard to become a woman for a Halloween metal show, sparking a debate about masculinity, karaoke, and the fashion implications of cowboy hats and no pants.From there, the lines exploded with callers: Carl, the eternal promoter, hijacked the show to turn it into an infomercial for his Toys for Tots car meet — complete with dental conspiracies, collapsing Corvettes, and tales of mothers who locked their children out until the streetlights came on. When the hosts finally escaped Carl’s gravitational pull, Brandon called in mid-delivery, nearly hitting a squad of right-wing goats and asking whether he’d be jailed for goat-slaughter-by-accident. Lieutenant Crain, a beacon of composure, explained open range law like Moses reading traffic codes from Mount Sinai, while Viktor dissolved into laughter.Rory followed with a rant about construction zones so nonsensical he questioned the sobriety of Idaho’s highway planners, prompting a philosophical tangent about airborne bridges and “drug-tested cone alignment professionals.” The chaos climaxed when the hosts debated whether Boise deserves more metal on the airwaves, shouting at imaginary programmers to “quit being afraid of the metal!” as if Iron Maiden were a civic duty.By the end, no lesson in traffic safety was learned, several laws were accidentally broken on-air, and yet everyone left spiritually enriched — high on laughter, coffee, and the strange brotherhood of Idaho radio. It was Traffic School in name only, but in spirit? It was a transcendental Idaho road trip through madness, metal, and goats.

This episode of Traffic School was a roadside circus where microphones shocked the hosts, callers devolved into improv comics, and Lieutenant Crain somehow held the line between lawful order and complete anarchy. The show opens mid-meltdown: cables tangling like a python attack while someone screams “THE COPS ARE HERE!” as if they were broadcasting live from a hostage situation instead of a radio booth. Once the studio stops electrocuting everyone, callers pour in like characters from a fever dream — Crazy Jay asks if cops ever handcuff themselves (which absolutely means one of them has), and Lieutenant Crain threatens to test the theory on air. Then comes the CDL conspiracy caller, worried about fake truckers barreling through Idaho like Mad Max extras, and before anyone can calm down, they’re ranting about Facebook algorithms, office chairs that eat your soul, and the metaphysical difference between “the country” and the country.By mid-show, it mutates into a bizarre town hall featuring Pink Floyd superstition (“You’ll never get pulled over if you’re vibing to Dark Side of the Moon”), a discussion about banning truck nuts, and Victor contemplating government reform because “nobody does homework before voting.” A caller asks about RV laws, sparking a philosophical crisis about why you can drive a 30,000-pound murder wagon with zero training, and Lieutenant Crain immediately volunteers to stir up chaos by introducing her to Victor “just to watch them go off.” Then there’s Crazy Carl — local legend, accidental philanthropist, and professional trouble magnet — promoting a “Toys for Tots” event that happens “every three years because that’s plenty of Christmas.” The crew spends ten minutes roasting parade candy and debating whether Bud Light counts as a trick-or-treat item.By the final stretch, the show dissolves into full small-town surrealism: callers hypothetically confess to incest, Crain confesses to watching kids weave in and out of traffic while another trooper writes window-paint citations, and everyone laughs like they’ve been trapped in a traffic safety Twilight Zone for too long. When the dust settles, you’re not sure if you learned a single thing about Idaho law — but you definitely learned how to survive a live broadcast powered by caffeine, malfunctioning microphones, and the unfiltered chaos of humanity.

This week’s episode of Traffic School descended into pure caffeine-fueled pandemonium before the first ad break. Viktor Wilt opened the floodgates with a half-cup of mystery coffee (possibly half jet fuel), instantly launching Lieutenant Crain into another episode of “What in the Blue Light of Boise Did I Just Walk Into?” Within minutes, Crazy Jay materialized from the radio ether like a chaotic cryptid of Idaho talk radio, verbally slapping Crain and declaring employment as the only reason for his absence — a plot twist so shocking it momentarily united law enforcement and chaos incarnate.From there, the show tore downhill like a shopping cart on fire: a narcotic-sniffing horse in Texas caused a suspect to flee at Mach 3, Viktor accidentally confessed to karaoke-based nudity, and a caller named Rory delivered a blistering rant about high beams, roundabouts, and Boise’s collective inability to drive in circles. The hosts reacted with existential horror and laughter, pondering if anyone in Idaho could legally operate a steering wheel.The chaos only intensified when a “haunted hemp maze” entered the chat — a real thing, allegedly — prompting both hosts to spiral into a bizarre PSA about THC percentages, formal probation, and hemp-based ghosts. Listeners then joined the frenzy: Shar (not Star, as she aggressively clarified) called to verbally uppercut bad roundabout drivers, while another listener dropped the unforgettable one-liner: “You know someone’s too stoned when they enter their PIN into the microwave.” By this point, the show had devolved into a fever dream of law enforcement, stoner logic, and regional driving trauma.Viktor capped off the madness by accidentally double-playing a creepy Tom Waits Halloween track, igniting workplace rage and an impromptu debate about Taylor Swift’s legality in roundabouts. The final stretch felt like caffeine noir: callers quoting traffic code like ancient prophecy while Crain laughed himself into a new blood pressure reading. Traffic School ended, as it always does — somewhere between a public safety lecture and an off-the-rails comedy séance.

The “episode” begins not with Bert Kreischer, but with his absence—a negative space, a hungover black hole where his face should be on Zoom. Instead, Peaches mutinies, seizing the host chair like a lunatic sea captain steering a flaming tugboat into the Mariana Trench. The clock screams 8:27, Bert is missing, and time itself begins to unravel. Suddenly, the airwaves are filled with fat-guy chair conspiracies, bathroom blame, and the unholy creation of a “stink meter” that feels less like a gag and more like some Pentagon psy-ops program designed to weaponize shame.Then—impact. Lieutenant Crain crashes into the studio, not walking but materializing, a spectral lawman in a suit sharp enough to slice through human decency, radiating the smell of cordite and sunflower spit. He announces he’s “going to the range,” but the range feels metaphorical: a cosmic shooting gallery where the targets are laws, logic, and whatever scraps of sanity still remain. The broadcast mutates into an improvised congressional hearing on Idaho gun laws, where you can’t buy cough syrup without ID but you can buy a shotgun from a man named Jed in a Walmart parking lot if you pinky-swear you’re not a felon. Anonymous callers bleed in through the wires, their voices distorted, demanding answers about open carry. Crain, drunk on authority and caffeine, invites them to bring all their guns down to the station—“We’ll check ‘em live, we’ll see what sticks.” Suddenly it’s not a talk show, it’s a game show: Felon Roulette, Hosted by the State of Idaho.Bert? Still gone. His bus—plastered with his idiot-savant grin—haunts the highways like a UFO, a traveling shrine to liver damage and misplaced time zones. His absence becomes the main character: the invisible guest, the empty chair, the void in the center of the storm. To distract themselves, the hosts conjure feverish diversions: a cage match between Joe Rogan and Crain refereed by Mark Hamill, haunted passports smuggled out of purgatory, and Viktor announcing his political run on a platform of buying metal detectors and possibly outlawing burritos behind the wheel. His cohosts laugh, but you can feel the electricity: the seed of a campaign, a manifesto scribbled in blood on the walls of the studio.And then the hallucination sharpens: the crew becomes obsessed with a local DJ’s incriminating TikTok, dissecting the footage like it’s the Zapruder film, arguing over whether his phone was dash-mounted or clutched in his reckless fist as he stares into the camera like a prophet of distracted driving. The show is no longer a show—it’s a tribunal, a kangaroo court broadcast to the world. Burritos, sunflower seeds, and soda become sacramental elements in this new religion: Crain confesses that every patrol car carried a communal one-pound seed bag, officers spitting shells and chasing suspects like cracked-out raccoons. He tells of juggling seeds, soda, and a hot call while his boss glared at him like he’d just vomited Satan into the cruiser. Peaches escalates the madness, confessing to eating sunflower seeds whole, shells and all, turning his gut into a wood chipper, a digestive sawmill grinding cellulose into cosmic mulch.By the end, the broadcast is no longer tethered to Earth. Bert’s empty Zoom box has become a religious icon, a glowing rectangle hovering over the studio like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The hosts have dissolved into avatars of absurdity: Peaches the bathroom prophet, Victor the failed demagogue, Crain the armed trickster-cop, Anonymous the faceless oracle. Together they birth a gospel of Idaho chaos, a manifesto written in static, where politics, comedy, traffic school, and gun deals melt into one screaming hallucination. The audience tunes in expecting Bert Kreischer but instead gets a psychic transmission from the other side: a radio séance summoning the spirit of America’s madness, live, unfiltered, and feral. Then Bert showed up and chatted with Peaches about his upcoming show at the Mountain America Center on Friday, October 3rd!

This episode of Traffic School was pure chaos wrapped in police sirens, Carolina Reapers, and unhinged callers who sounded like they were dialing in from alternate dimensions. It started with Speaker 0 begging to be arrested just so he could get a nap in the back of a cruiser, while Speaker 1 walked in to find him “resting his eyes” like a dad on Sunday afternoon—except with bonus death-metal snoring. Then the phone lines lit up with Zach, who casually wondered whether he actually had to pull over for undercover drug task force Durangos with flashing lights (translation: he lives a lifestyle where this is a regular concern). Lieutenant Crain gave an official step-by-step survival guide that basically boiled down to “drive slowly, call 911, and pray it’s not a guy who stole a cop car.” The madness escalated with a caller marveling at K9s who live to bite criminals, followed by Crazy Carl, who derailed the show into a saga about pickling Carolina Reapers, sending his daughter to the ER via dehydrator fumes, and standing in his driveway in a hazmat suit grinding peppers until his neighbors assumed he was cooking meth. Somewhere in there, they debated whether people can legally arrange backyard fistfights on TikTok, brainstormed putting Peaches in a bite suit for content, and swapped horror stories about macing, pepper accidents, and “watering the lilies” without washing your hands first. By the time they circled back to actual traffic laws—fog lights, towing uninsured cars with bungee cords, and light bars blinding half of Idaho—the episode had gone fully off the rails. It was less “Traffic School” and more “Mad Max in a Walmart parking lot with peppers, dogs, and fistfights.” 

This episode of Traffic School was pure chaos in the best way possible: it started with an impromptu interrogation about a suspiciously large duffle bag being smuggled into a station vehicle (don’t worry, it’s just “hats”), then immediately spiraled into a live commercial for Idaho produce at Walmart in Chubbuck, which somehow became a running joke about peaches being the most dangerous contraband in the state. Lieutenant Crain wandered in wearing a Freddy Krueger shirt like it was Halloween in September, only to be roasted for canceling a Harley ride because of “a little rain.” Listeners called in with everything from Pinto-bragging, kidney-rattling bass trucks, and grandpas forging optometry forms to keep their licenses, to dirt bikers accidentally turning a joyride into a survival expedition up a mountain. Carl nearly blew the speakers out of the broadcast just by existing, Peaches threatened to walk through the scene of an accident on Highway 20, and someone seriously asked if Rexburg had outlawed skateboarding for being “too fun.” By the midpoint, the hosts were plotting helicopter escapes from traffic, threatening listeners with eternal sentences to “Peaches’ Pit Party” if they didn’t call in, and debating the legality of tinted license plate covers like it was a Supreme Court case. The whole show felt like a fever dream sponsored by Walmart, the Advocates, and pure gasoline fumes—ending with the revelation that the only real law in Idaho is: don’t get too close to Viktor’s vehicle, because you’ll never know what’s in the bag. 

This episode of Traffic School was a full-throttle, no-seatbelt, caffeine-fueled demolition derby of chaos, and I loved every screeching second of it. Lieutenant Crain burst in waving a metaphorical ticket book like Thor’s hammer, announcing an “emphasis patrol” on hands-free driving—translation: if you so much as glance at your phone today, you’re basically auditioning for a starring role in COPS: Idaho Edition. The host immediately tried to trick Crain into revealing secret cop hideouts like it was a low-budget spy thriller, but Crain wasn’t biting—though he did gleefully admit the officers were already “catching fish,” which made the entire thing sound like an illegal poaching expedition of TikTok-obsessed motorists. From there, the show spiraled into a fever dream of warnings about Rexburg traffic doom (because BYU-Idaho students are apparently the horsemen of the traffic apocalypse), hot takes on confusing diamond-shaped intersections that terrify change-hating drivers, and fairground survival tips that boiled down to “enjoy the memories while you crawl home in gridlock.”Then the callers arrived like deranged prophets of vehicular madness. One guy spiraled into an existential crisis about Miranda rights after binge-watching cop bodycam videos, realizing that 100% of people exercise their “right to remain chatty” instead of silent, while Crain begged the public to PLEASE shut up once in their lives. Another asked about CDL DUI laws, prompting jokes about demoting drunk semi drivers to cursed school bus duty—a punishment worse than jail. Sunny Carl called in next, spinning a feverish yarn about buying abandoned cars in farmer fields like some outlaw auto-pirate, which immediately triggered Crain to tell a horrifying tale of two geniuses who lit a gas can on fire with a lighter to “check the fuel level” and promptly roasted themselves into crispy cautionary tales. The moral? Fire + gasoline = live-action Darwin Awards.Just when you thought sanity might make a U-turn, more callers stormed the lines demanding senior retesting programs, stricter driver’s ed, and rage against idiot motorists with trailers, while Crain gleefully plotted how he’d secretly sign half the population up for surprise re-exams. The show careened into debates over freeway merging etiquette, brake controllers for towed vehicles, and whether common sense is legally recognized in Idaho (spoiler: it’s optional). By the end, the whole thing felt less like a radio program and more like a roadside carnival hosted by lunatics armed with citations, sarcasm, and gasoline-soaked life lessons.

This episode of Traffic School was a carnival of chaos disguised as public safety advice, beginning with Viktor Wilt practically foaming at the mouth over a three-day weekend while Lieutenant Crain tried to keep things grounded by reminding everyone not to obliterate children in school zones. From there, the conversation careened into a fever dream of Walmart parking-lot beer chugging etiquette, the ethics of pulling a gun on grocery delivery drivers in the sticks, and the terrifying concept of lost DoorDashers wandering rural Idaho like doomed settlers. A caller ratted out a rogue school bus driver who was apparently drag-racing through school zones, which devolved into stories of ping-pong-ball children bouncing down aisles and Lieutenant Crain getting kicked off the bus as a kid for being too unhinged even by bus-driver standards.Then came the CDL caller Quincy, who once again phoned in like the final boss of trucker law exams, asking about “overhanging” loads until Crain accidentally gave bad intel, only for another caller to swoop in mid-episode and fact-check him live like some unholy DMV superhero. Cue the hosts spiraling into paranoia about “fake news” Traffic School while Crain’s wife was invoked as the eternal judge of his wrongness. Meanwhile, Adam the listener called just to say he appreciated cops wrangling belligerent drunks, which triggered an entire tangent about cyclists trying to LARP as police and Viktor cackling at videos of them getting scolded. The episode then dissolved into radio signal blackouts, conspiracy theories about Idaho Power silencing Viktor, and Carl the Plugmaster hijacking the show to advertise car shows, veteran fundraisers, and possibly his own lawn chair beer empire. By the end, no one was sure if they’d just listened to a public service program, a surrealist comedy, or a cult recruitment tape—but one thing was clear: Traffic School had once again jumped the guardrail, launched into the ditch, and somehow stuck the landing.

This episode of Traffic School Powered by the Advocates was pure chaos wrapped in asphalt fumes and muffler smoke. It began with Viktor fumbling the intro like a rookie DJ at a middle school dance, then spiraled into a carnival of callers who treated the phone lines like a confessional booth for vehicular sins. Austin tried to lawyer his way into a free pass on his Frankenstein exhaust system with “Google told me so” energy, only to be reminded the law doesn’t bend for muffler.com. Carl—the eternal caller who might secretly live inside the radio tower—showed up twice, once to rant about school zones like a budget Batman and then to casually throw the DMV into existential crisis by asking whether his newly 18-year-old daughter could operate two tons of steel without adult supervision. Somewhere in between, Sunday Sunday Sunday barged in like a used car ad made flesh, Gabe cried about semis tailgating him on Highway 91, and Shannon demanded to know why every jacked-up truck is allowed to spit gravel directly into windshields like a medieval siege weapon. Things escalated when McKenna rage-quit after learning her friend’s electric bike is basically a criminal on two wheels, Butters philosophized about abandoned cars as if prepping for a Mad Max reboot, and Carl (again, because Carl is infinite) attempted to claim squatter’s rights on random vehicles. The hosts clowned on pennies, admitted to getting citations themselves, and invented a new show idea where they prank-call Utah until Utah collectively collapses. Between Cracker Barrel logo outrage, boat-theft side quests, and people earnestly asking if they can tint their windows in “color-shifting anime sparkle mode,” the show dissolved into a surreal DMV fever dream where laws exist but only matter if you’re unlucky enough to get caught. By the end, Lieutenant Crain and Viktor basically begged Idaho to stop being idiots behind the wheel, but let’s be real—next week Carl’s going to call back five times, Sunday will be drinking beer at another car show, and someone’s going to ask if they can drive a tractor through a roundabout while blasting Nickelback at 120 decibels. 

Oh, buckle in, because this episode of Traffic School Powered by The Advocates was less of a radio show and more of a high-speed demolition derby for the human brain. The hosts somehow managed to transform basic legal questions into a full-blown carnival of chaos: one minute they’re debating whether saying “goodnight” to your bros is the new masculinity benchmark, the next they’re uninviting spouses from a quadruple date to go see Weird Al “the tweaker” on a street corner. Listeners call in with questions ranging from “Can I put my kids in the bed of my truck while I speed down the highway?” (answer: yes, if you don’t mind proving your love with mild child endangerment), to “What do I do if I hit an eagle with my motorcycle?” (answer: hope the eagle doesn’t press charges because it definitely doesn’t carry insurance). Then it spirals—pipe bombs in Fords, exploding beached whales, people surfing on Chevy Blazers through lava rock beds, and a woman named Rivonda casually admitting she’s drinking a beer, driving with her kneecap, and pelting cars with eggs like some outlaw Easter Bunny. Every single caller is either confessing to a misdemeanor, begging for a tuck-in phone call, or plotting how to weaponize agricultural byproducts. The entire show plays out like a fever dream where Weird Al, Rick Astley, and Louie Louie are the horsemen of the musical apocalypse, while Lieutenant Crane tries desperately to keep people from setting off explosives or recreating Jackass on Idaho highways. By the end, everyone’s still alive, slightly traumatized, and somehow craving ice cream from a sketchy West Yellowstone knife shop. Truly, a masterpiece of roadside delirium.

Buckle your seatbelt—or don’t, but it’ll cost you $28.50 if you’re in a commercial vehicle—because this episode of Traffic School went straight off the rails and into the figure-eight racetrack of madness. Viktor kicked things off by roasting the name “Marvin,” clarifying commercial seatbelt fines, and then immediately derailing into a rant about budget deficits and how seatbelt tickets might be Idaho’s golden ticket to funding underground pedestrian tunnels. We got legal bumper talk—plastic vs. metal, 2x4s as DIY crash protection—and someone trying to classify their Ford Focus skeleton as street-legal. Listeners were in rare form, asking about front license plate exemptions, phantom girlfriends, and the legality of driving vehicles that look like they were built in Minecraft. The cherry on this chaotic sundae? Viktor’s bass-playing buddy Nick accidentally triggered a statewide manhunt because someone thought his mountain-man vibe matched a murder suspect’s. Choppers, feds, and Fox News all got involved before realizing they were chasing the wrong beard. Throw in truck nuts, train horns, DoorDash phone-touch paranoia, a deep dive into DOT port law, and a live lifeline call to a commercial vehicle code specialist, and you’ve got a broadcast that could only be described as bureaucratic anarchy on caffeine. FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE @VIKTORWILTVisit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/info-page/the-viktor-wilt-show/Subscribe to the KBear YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@kbear101rmgFollow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fmFollow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm/Follow us on Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/kbear101fm.bsky.socialFollow us on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@kbear101fmFollow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm

Buckle up, because this episode of Traffic School powered by The Advocates was less a conversation and more a gasoline-soaked fever dream of mayhem, roundabouts, and unsolicited rattlesnake encounters. It opened with Viktor Wilt casually mentioning an impending warrant and a probation check-in, before launching into plans for a Salt Lake City dude’s trip with Jade and Josh—Josh being the designated “bond money babysitter,” because apparently this crew needs adult supervision to cross state lines. Meanwhile, Sergeant Crain tried to maintain some semblance of legal authority while recounting the time a Pathfinder full of teenagers went airborne off railroad tracks like a deleted scene from Fast & Furious: Eastern Idaho Drift.Callers were unhinged and glorious. Scott demanded clarification on a mystical lane painted with a tornado, Natalie nearly got flattened by tractors on single-lane mountain roads, and John from Rexburg was aghast that his town’s nightlife revolved around Applebee’s and something called “The Pineapple,” which turned out to be a nonalcoholic soda shack. Bikers, burnout bros, truckers with digital middle fingers, and folks just trying to not explode their oil tankers all chimed in. Questions ranged from “Can I speed in the left lane?” (no, Instagram lied to you) to “Can I do burnouts in the street?” (only if you're upwind and in Rigby).Oh, and somewhere between the chaos, someone asked about a mysterious red arrow law and was advised to just make their own sign. Because in Idaho, common sense is optional, but sarcasm is the real traffic control device.FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE @VIKTORWILTVisit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/info-page/the-viktor-wilt-show/Subscribe to the KBear YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@kbear101rmgFollow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fmFollow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm/Follow us on Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/kbear101fm.bsky.socialFollow us on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@kbear101fmFollow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm

What was this episode?! It started with “partying with the cops” and quickly spiraled into a full-throttle fever dream of air horn law, vibrating foghorn patrol cars, train-horn-toting maniacs, truck nut evasion strategies, and wild cat vs. snake standoffs. Lieutenant Crain fought through a week of madness, one call at a time, while Viktor Wilt juggled a busted headlight, exploding taillight emotions, and the existential dread of buying overpriced black license plates that still have “world famous potatoes” printed on them. Callers? Oh, they brought it: one dude wanted to walk around in a Speedo for the lulz, another accidentally admitted to running a mobile poop empire without a CDL, and someone’s dad might be a Speedo-wearing anti-ID anarchist carpenter/fixer who may or may not be breaking federal law. There were bees weaponized against law enforcement, a cat named Lucy’s mom who now lives inside Lieutenant Crain’s shadow, and the shocking revelation that all Idaho cops are now forced to drink tap water like peasants. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any more unhinged—boom—someone tries to name their cat Chernobyl. Radio gold. Absolute chaos. No notes.FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE @VIKTORWILTVisit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/info-page/the-viktor-wilt-show/Subscribe to the KBear YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@kbear101rmgFollow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fmFollow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm/Follow us on Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/kbear101fm.bsky.socialFollow us on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@kbear101fmFollow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm

This episode of Traffic School was straight-up vehicular mayhem mixed with emotional chaos, caffeine-fueled banter, and absurd masculinity rules that made zero sense but somehow made perfect radio. Viktor Wilt and Lieutenant Crain kicked things off with unhinged workplace rants, slapping metaphors, and financial threats directed at poor Jade for not giving Viktor a raise. Viktor confessed he was “too manly” to ride another man’s boat, and that sparked a testosterone-fueled spiral of logic so deranged, it broke the laws of reason—and likely Idaho boating statutes. Then came the trucker calls, with long-haulers phoning in to complain about lane governors and passing speeds, and Viktor gleefully declaring he’d own a trucking company purely to enrage motorists by blocking lanes with smug delight. From there, things nosedived into full lunacy as Carl, the unofficial fourth host, called in to talk Mustang detailing, illicit snow cone distribution, and Fourth of July bootlegging. Meanwhile, Crain tried to jump things on e-bikes, and the city considered outlawing fun entirely via new ordinances. More madness ensued as listeners asked about bumper height legality, lane-splitting confusion, front plate requirements, bridge jumping laws, and fireworks regulations—all while casually confessing to questionable childhood decisions, forgotten TV references, and calling DJs “babe” by accident. This episode wasn’t just traffic school—it was a demolition derby of the mind, driven by chaos, powered by The Advocates, and barely held together by a phone line and the dim hope that someone, somewhere, learned something. Probably not. FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE @VIKTORWILTVisit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/info-page/the-viktor-wilt-show/Subscribe to the KBear YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@kbear101rmgFollow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fmFollow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm/Follow us on Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/kbear101fm.bsky.socialFollow us on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@kbear101fmFollow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm

STRAP IN AND RIP OFF THE REARVIEW MIRROR, BECAUSE THIS WEEK’S EPISODE OF TRAFFIC SCHOOL POWERED BY THE ADVOCATES WAS A FLAMETHROWER TO THE FACE OF SANITY. Lieutenant Crain beamed in live from a classified desert location so suspicious it might as well have had alien cows grazing in the background. He dodged every question about Area 51 like a man who's definitely hiding intergalactic secrets, all while fielding legal questions from a cavalcade of chaos demons calling in from every dimension of rural America.We started with a casual story about a Family Dollar cashier SHOOTING A SHOPLIFTER IN THE BUTT. That’s right—dollar store vigilante justice. Crain diplomatically explained that no, you can’t legally shoot someone over discounted toothpaste, but the spirit of East Idaho apparently says “meh, maybe.” Things only escalated from there.Carl called in wondering if his 1,200 horsepower death chariot was street legal. Sure, Carl—just promise you won’t use it, which is like giving a toddler a flamethrower and asking them not to light the drapes. Meanwhile, someone else asked about riding horses through traffic, sparking a completely serious conversation about DUI loopholes involving saddles. One guy wanted to outrun a cop for fun. Another caller tried to prank the show with a horse question, got out-crazied by the actual answer, and hung up mid-giggle.Zoom court attire became a battleground when a woman in Detroit showed up late, rocking a house robe and building a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of a fuming judge. The consensus: not technically illegal, but if you disrespect the judge's fashion sense, you're going to jail emotionally, if not legally.Then came the Facebook Group Street Law Debate Hour, where callers ranted about left-turn intersections, misused center lanes, right-on-red arrows, and whether you can summon Satan by merging incorrectly in Idaho Falls. At least three people called just to argue with ghost traffic cops they imagined while scrolling Life in Idaho Falls at 2 a.m.We had a 25-YEAR D.U.I. FUGITIVE who beat the system so hard it may as well have bought him dinner. Another caller demanded justice for his bullied son and accidentally uncovered a Peaches Needs a Pal conspiracy so elaborate it may be the Zapruder film of Idaho radio. Peaches, allegedly being bullied in videos, turns out to be the mastermind behind his own torment—truly a Shakespearean twist.By the end, we were fielding questions about federal desert jurisdiction, black box crash data, and whether protestors can legally block traffic without getting rolled over by diesel trucks driven by emotionally unstable patriots with allergies. Lieutenant Crain politely reminded everyone not to blast protesters with coal smoke, while one caller fantasized about doing just that to Viktor personally.Finally, we closed things out with a caller lost in the mountains trying to use a satellite phone to ask whether cop cars have airplane-style data recorders, a dude who needed off-air legal help immediately, and a clear indication that this show has somehow crossed over into a parallel universe where chaos is law and law is merely a suggestion.This episode was less a radio show and more a nuclear event disguised as local traffic education. God help us all next Friday.FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE @VIKTORWILTVisit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/info-page/the-viktor-wilt-show/Subscribe to the KBear YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@kbear101rmgFollow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fmFollow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm/Follow us on Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/kbear101fm.bsky.socialFollow us on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@kbear101fmFollow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm

OH. MY. GUTTER-GLORIOUS. CHAOS. This episode of Traffic School was an all-you-can-eat buffet of unhinged brilliance, birthday belligerence, and buck-wild banter that spiraled gloriously out of control like a bald tire on a buttered racetrack. We started in pitch darkness—literal and metaphorical—as Lieutenant Crain stumbled into the studio like a bat fleeing daylight, only to be bombarded by mini-bike legal advice, blacked-out alpaca assaults, and a 15-year-old caller getting life lessons on girls and motorcycles in the same breath. Isaac, bless his handlebars, kicked off a cascade of increasingly absurd questions, including someone trying to smuggle an unlicensed truck past troopers using Waze as a criminal GPS, and Thaddeus—the $255.50 outlaw—who’s building a rap sheet out in the boonies while dodging his 30K in child support like it’s dodgeball at a family reunion. There was also an alpaca sneeze victim, a Pinto-powered feud with Crazy Carl, and traffic circle training that turned into a demolition derby proposal. And just when it couldn’t possibly get weirder, we slid into a philosophical meltdown about anatomically correct truck nuts, alien boobs, and why daylight saving time might be the root of all evil. If sanity was ever on this show, it got pulled over and ticketed three times before getting stomped out by an angry deer in a headlock. Happy birthday, Viktor—may your cake be frosted with madness and topped with high-octane insanity. FOLLOW ME EVERYWHERE @VIKTORWILTVisit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/info-page/the-viktor-wilt-show/Subscribe to the KBear YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@kbear101rmgFollow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fmFollow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm/Follow us on Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/kbear101fm.bsky.socialFollow us on Threads: https://www.threads.net/@kbear101fmFollow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm