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!