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.