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.