This episode of Traffic School detonates immediately and never bothers to rebuild society. What begins as a “professional” radio segment powered by the Advocates Injury Attorneys quickly mutates into an audio crime scene featuring fake marriages, fake names, real callers, imaginary statutes, broken equipment, and one increasingly terrified dump button fighting for its life. Victor and Lieutenant Crane spiral through conversations about snowblowers dying tragic deaths, Idaho’s possibly-haunted marriage laws (sleep together = legally bound??? maybe???), and the philosophical freedom of simply declaring “we’re married” on Facebook and letting the courts deal with the emotional fallout. Meanwhile, callers emerge from the abyss—some legitimate, some pranksters, some apparently possessed by Borat himself—asking questions ranging from red-light turning loopholes to whether you can legally drive like Ace Ventura with your head out the window eating bugs. The episode escalates into full chaos as prank callers scream, swear, break the FCC, and expose the horrifying truth: THE DUMP BUTTON IS BROKEN. What follows is pure radio panic—calls are abandoned, producers are feared, Jade is invoked like an inevitable grim reaper, and Victor openly wonders if this is the last broadcast before he’s launched into unemployment. Add in Family Feud hype, outlaw country promotion, accidental profanity, Ravonda calling back like a force of nature, and repeated assurances that “they’ll never catch me,” and you have an episode that feels less like traffic law education and more like an audio hostage situation where everyone is laughing, sweating, and praying the FCC wasn’t listening. By the end, Traffic School doesn’t so much end as it collapses—mic off, nerves fried, careers dangling—cementing this installment as a legendary train wreck wrapped in a siren, duct-taped to a broken broadcast console, and driven straight through the guardrail at full speed.

The new year kicks off with Traffic School immediately swerving into the guardrail in the best possible way. Viktor drags Lieutenant Crain back into the studio after what feels like a legally questionable hiatus, and within minutes the show descends into a philosophical debate about whether a car can legally live its entire life in reverse. This question—courtesy of the season’s first call from Crazy J—sets the tone: logic will be challenged, patience will be tested, and common sense will be taken out back and lightly scolded. From there, the episode ricochets through everything from kneecap-based law enforcement hypotheticals to the sobering realization that yes, Idaho law does in fact expect you to stop when exiting a parking lot, even if you’re late and spiritually opposed to stopping.

As the calls roll in, the show tackles the real issues plaguing society: break-checking as a lifestyle choice, why insurance companies absolutely hate you on a personal level, and whether being drunk, anxious, apologetic, or mounted on a horse will magically exempt you from consequences. Viktor pitches increasingly dumb scenarios with absolute confidence, while Lieutenant Crain patiently explains—again—that intent still matters, reverse is not a travel strategy, and no, tapping your brakes to “send a message” is not the loophole you think it is. Somewhere in the middle, the conversation detours into stolen mandolins, electric bluegrass fantasies, public nudity hypotheticals involving hot tubs, and a deeply scientific estimate of what percentage of the population is walking around with their brain unplugged.

The episode wraps by answering questions nobody asked but everyone needed answered: how long a train is supposed to block your life, why on-ramps continue to defeat fully licensed adults, whether Santa is operating under a federal exemption, and how many laws exist purely to irritate Viktor specifically. Toss in a Family Feud tease, a snowblower casualty report, and multiple callers named John, and you’ve got an episode that feels less like traffic school and more like an audio stress test for civilization. Welcome to the new year—nothing has improved.

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.