Traffic School

Welcome to Traffic School, the only morning radio program where the hosts show up looking like they were dragged out of a medically induced coma, a police lieutenant arrives to discuss actual law enforcement, and within minutes somebody is asking whether throwing fireworks into another person's car during a road rage incident is a misdemeanor or a felony. It is October 9, 2026, and the gang is running on approximately four hours of sleep, questionable midnight food deliveries, and the collective determination to make sure Idaho Falls becomes internationally recognizable for reasons that absolutely do not involve winning an award for civic responsibility. Viktor is exhausted because he stayed up late after emo night, ordered food instead of going to bed like a functioning adult, and apparently managed to turn off his alarm while unconscious. Fortunately, Ravonda woke him up before he could accidentally lose a race against Lieutenant Crane to his own workplace, which would have created the first-ever police recruitment event conducted entirely through a locked radio station door. Meanwhile, the prospect of Idaho Falls appearing on On Patrol: Live sends the studio into a spiral of anticipation, because nothing says community pride quite like hoping your friends, relatives, drinking buddies, and that one cousin nobody discusses at Thanksgiving get captured on national television doing something spectacularly regrettable. The hosts encourage everyone to head downtown and provide the cameras with something worth broadcasting, while Ravonda confidently announces that nobody will ever catch her running. This inspires a mental image of an actual police pursuit featuring a camera crew, a fleeing Ravonda, and Viktor providing commentary from a safe distance because running is apparently something he reserves for emergencies involving absolutely no alternative to walking. The conversation gets even better when they discuss whether the new police broadcasts will be available through a streaming service, ultimately discovering that viewers might be able to use a free trial to watch the entire city make questionable decisions without spending a cent. Why pay for scripted television when your own neighbors may be producing an unscripted crime drama in the parking lot? Then comes the first listener question, and it is a magnificent example of why nobody should ever underestimate the creative potential of someone who has been awake too long. Curly calls in to ask what kind of trouble a person could get into for dropping fireworks into somebody else's car during a road rage confrontation. Notice that the question isn't about how to calm down, exchange insurance information, or avoid escalating an argument with another motorist. No. Curly has apparently progressed directly to the hypothetical intersection of explosive devices, automotive property damage, and criminal sentencing. The hosts begin debating whether the fireworks are small firecrackers or something considerably more powerful, whether the incident would be classified as a misdemeanor, and whether the amount of damage could push it into felony territory. At one point, the conversation even drifts toward the possibility of spending time in county jail, which is treated less like a consequence of criminal behavior and more like a budget-conscious vacation package featuring free meals and an escape from the modern economy. Curly seems interested in finding the precise point at which his imaginary fireworks-based revenge operation becomes a felony, and the entire studio sounds as though it is one follow-up question away from accidentally producing the world's least responsible instructional seminar. To be clear, the conversation is comedy, not legal advice, and nobody should interpret it as permission to launch fireworks into another person's vehicle. The fact that this requires clarification is itself a powerful argument for the continued existence of Traffic School. Next, Eli calls to ask whether military vehicles are exempt from the normal obligation to merge safely when entering a freeway. Lieutenant Crane explains that an active military movement may involve an escort, but ordinary drivers entering the freeway still need to handle the merge appropriately. This triggers a discussion about what happens when somebody in an on-ramp lane decides to match the speed of traffic and simply expects the rest of the universe to rearrange itself around them. Viktor imagines a tank rolling onto the freeway, which naturally leads Ravonda to announce that Viktor himself resembles a tank. A debate about military vehicle privileges has somehow become a referendum on Viktor's body shape, and the studio wastes no time bringing Taco Bell into the proceedings. Lieutenant Crane points out that Viktor was complaining about the economy while ordering overpriced DoorDash at midnight, and Viktor attempts to blame Ravonda for the entire situation because she needed to use the restroom before they could stop for food. According to Viktor's version of events, the bathroom detour prevented him from getting Taco Bell, forcing him to order delivery and remain awake until midnight. According to everyone else, Viktor is a grown man who made his own decisions and then showed up to work complaining about them. This is the kind of international economic analysis you can only get from people who are actively arguing about whether a late-night burrito was worth sacrificing a fifth of their sleep. Rick then calls with a complaint about electric bicycles on public roads, and the conversation immediately becomes an East Idaho civic planning summit conducted by people who may or may not be fully awake. The discussion touches on how electric bike rules can vary between cities and what additional requirements might apply when certain vehicles are used in regular traffic. Lieutenant Crane mentions potential issues involving insurance, registration, motorcycle endorsements, and helmets, depending on the applicable rules and vehicle classification. The hosts then begin speculating about the recent strange stories emerging from Rexburg and whether the town would make better television than Idaho Falls. Somehow, the discussion turns to a reported naked runner whose explanation for running away from authorities was essentially that he did not want anyone to see him naked. Ravonda insists that Viktor is the kind of person who would run around near the river naked while chasing people, and Viktor's attempts to defend himself only seem to provide the studio with additional material. By this point, the proposed police reality show is no longer just a television program. It is a looming threat to the privacy of every person who has ever made a questionable decision within driving distance of downtown Idaho Falls. The hosts appear convinced that somebody they know will inevitably show up on screen, and they are practically preparing their acceptance speeches for the moment a relative becomes a viral sensation. A listener then calls to ask what would happen if someone pulled over for a minor traffic violation immediately exited the vehicle, lay face down on the ground, allowed officers to handcuff them, and then refused to identify themselves or answer questions. It is a question so unnecessarily elaborate that the studio seems to need a moment to appreciate the sheer commitment to making a simple traffic stop as awkward as humanly possible. Lieutenant Crane explains that officers may face difficulties establishing someone's identity and could use investigative procedures to determine who the person is. He recalls an incident in which a man reportedly remained silent for three or four days before finally identifying himself. THREE OR FOUR DAYS. Imagine being so dedicated to refusing to speak that your traffic stop evolves into a multiday administrative saga. While the discussion of identificati...

This episode of Traffic School begins exactly the way a respectable discussion about traffic safety should begin: with a man returning from ten glorious days of refusing to look at his phone, immediately followed by a conversation about a monstrous nine-lane road that mysteriously collapses into three lanes and then dumps unsuspecting motorists into a roundabout with absolutely no lane markings. In other words, civilization has apparently decided that road design should now resemble a multiplayer video game where everyone is driving simultaneously and nobody has been told the controls. The discussion somehow wanders to gigantic roundabouts in Tijuana, mopeds, dented cars, and the terrifying experience of attempting to cross a street while feeling like you're starring in a live-action version of Frogger. This is the serene, educational atmosphere in which Traffic School begins its descent into madness. Then comes the first major legal question: the legendary Idaho “15 miles per hour over” myth. A listener asks whether drivers can continuously travel 15 miles per hour over the posted speed limit on a four-lane highway, and the answer is a devastating blow to everyone who has apparently been treating 85 miles per hour as the unofficial speed limit whenever the sign says 70. The explanation centers on passing on qualifying two-lane roads rather than granting humanity a federally subsidized license to absolutely blast down four-lane highways. Naturally, the hosts immediately acknowledge that plenty of people seem to believe otherwise, particularly during interstate travel through Utah, where apparently the concept of a posted speed limit is treated more like a polite suggestion printed on a decorative plaque. The phone lines then open the floodgates, producing question after question about turning lanes and red lights. One caller wants to settle an argument with his wife over whether you have to remain in your designated lane when making a right turn onto a two-lane road or a left turn onto a one-way street. The answer is yes, and the caller leaves victorious without ever having to tell his wife that the radio officially declared him correct. Then comes another perennial internet war: the red arrow. The hosts make it clear that a red arrow means you cannot simply perform the maneuver people have apparently been performing for years while screaming, “BUT THERE WASN'T A SIGN!” Traffic School has officially entered the online-comment-section dimension, where basic traffic signals become subjects of theological debate. And then there is Crazy Carl, a man so determined to become caller number 20 that he has apparently sacrificed his physical health, workplace productivity, spinal alignment, and possibly his career in pursuit of a Metallica vinyl record. Carl explains that he has been carrying his radio around all day trying to win, prompting a discussion about the tremendous lengths people will go to acquire concert tickets. The episode establishes that listeners can win Metallica vinyl and potentially get entered for tickets, meaning Carl's quest has now escalated from “fun radio contest” to “full-time occupation.” The hosts even contemplate a completely unofficial future giveaway based on how many times Carl says “seriously” or “oh man,” which may be the most beautifully unnecessary statistical study ever proposed on live radio. Carl then delivers the episode's first major historical detour by asking about seatbelts in old cars. Suddenly, Traffic School becomes a documentary about the terrifying childhoods of previous generations, where seatbelts were apparently optional, children were launched across back seats like loose cargo, cigarette ash flew through open windows, and Mom's arm served as the primary restraint system. The conversation turns to classic cars that were never manufactured with seatbelts and whether their owners are required to install them. The answer leads into a larger discussion about how aggressively people fought mandatory seatbelt laws, with the hosts laughing at old footage of people treating seatbelt requirements like an authoritarian declaration of war. Apparently, some citizens looked at a device specifically designed to prevent them from becoming a human projectile and said, “This violates my freedom.” The seatbelt discussion gets progressively more deranged when the show takes a detour into old traffic-safety studies. Lieutenant Crane describes sitting beside a busy intersection with two clickers, manually counting who was wearing a seatbelt and who wasn't. The image of a person spending an hour clicking two handheld counters while inevitably forgetting which hand represented “seatbelt” and which represented “no seatbelt” is almost too perfect. Modern surveillance technology has apparently liberated humanity from this highly sophisticated methodology, although that creates its own problems when law-enforcement cameras are misused. The conversation touches on Flock cameras and stories of officers getting in trouble for using them in inappropriate ways, transforming what began as seatbelt statistics into a brief descent into the surveillance-state abyss. Another caller shares an absolutely bizarre family story about a father-in-law who apparently refused to wear a seatbelt for his entire life, only to finally have a seatbelt put around him after death while his body was being transported to the morgue. This produces the kind of darkly absurd exchange that could only happen on a radio show where the subject is traffic safety. The conversation then turns into a mini-history of a supposedly legendary Rexburg troublemaker who apparently argued with every police officer he encountered. Rexburg is subsequently characterized as such an extreme hotbed of rebellion that going five miles per hour over the limit is treated like a criminal mastermind operation. “Rexburg Rebels” may not be an official sports team, but after this episode it absolutely sounds like one. The next call somehow manages to combine traffic law, concealed weapons, police stops, and the universal nightmare of not knowing exactly what you're supposed to tell an officer when you're carrying a firearm. The discussion focuses on whether Idaho drivers with concealed weapons permits have to immediately announce that they have a firearm during a traffic stop. Lieutenant Crane explains that there isn't a blanket requirement to announce the weapon, while emphasizing that communication is especially important before reaching toward an area where an officer might see a firearm. The conversation then spirals into jokes about everyone in Idaho apparently having a gun and the importance of knowing where yours is before the police do. Naturally, the hosts compare firearm training to the surprisingly minimal training required to purchase an RV and immediately attempt to tow it somewhere, because apparently America has decided that knowing how to reverse a 30-foot trailer is optional. From there, Traffic School briefly transforms into Idaho Agriculture School. Viktor prepares to broadcast from a local event promoting Idaho-grown food, and the conversation becomes a spectacular celebration of beef, potatoes, dairy, ranching, farming, and Viktor's allegedly questionable credentials as an agricultural expert. Lieutenant Crane attacks his qualifications with the devastating observation that pulling a string on a children's toy and correctly identifying a cow does not necessarily make someone a cattle expert. Viktor, naturally, remains confident in his ability to identify beef while simultaneously admitting that he has apparently never spent enough time on an actual farm to justify his confidence. This leads to a beautiful collision of traffic education and Idaho food propaganda. Then the episode takes ano...

Traffic School returns with Lieutenant Crain, although apparently the relationship between the hosts has deteriorated to the point where one person doesn’t even remember the other is supposed to be coming in, and the other arrives slightly late just to prove a point. The show immediately spirals into a discussion about a man in San Francisco who tried to punch a guy walking his dog, only to discover that the alleged victim was a former Marine and martial arts instructor, leading to the timeless public-safety lesson that you should probably investigate the character sheet of the human being you are about to fight before initiating combat. From there, the conversation somehow mutates into cowboy fashion, fake Yellowstone cowboys, real cowboys, farm clothing, tennis shoes protecting cowboy boots, and Lieutenant Crane revealing that his wife once announced she hated cowboys shortly before discovering that the man she was dating was, in fact, extremely cowboy. Marriage: where your own opinions eventually become evidence against you. Then it is officially Traffic School time, powered by The Advocates Injury Attorneys, and the first major legal crisis arrives in the form of a windshield that has apparently been defeated by a construction-zone leaf blower. A caller traveling through the Highway 20 construction between St. Anthony and Rexburg says workers were using giant blowing machines to clear debris when a rock allegedly launched itself toward his vehicle and damaged his windshield. The question: can he sue Knife River? Lieutenant Crain explains that while someone can file a lawsuit or claim, actually proving responsibility is the difficult part. Was the rock directly blasted into the vehicle? Did another vehicle kick it up? Was it simply a road hazard? Was the leaf blower secretly a military-grade rock artillery system? Nobody knows. The caller does not have a dash cam, which is immediately identified as an unfortunate absence of evidence. The windshield damage is reportedly going to cost hundreds of dollars, creating a deeply American courtroom fantasy in which everyone briefly considers litigating over a rock launched by what may or may not have been the world's angriest leaf blower. The windshield discussion then somehow becomes a commercial for windshield repair, a scientific investigation into whether Viktor's enormous leaf blower could launch rocks, and an opportunity to discuss the miserable reality of Idaho driving: even after getting a windshield replaced, you can apparently get another crack almost immediately because Idaho roads have apparently declared war on glass. Another caller later adds an important wrinkle, explaining that road contractors may have provisions in their contracts or insurance arrangements for windshield claims. Lieutenant Crain recalls a previous Highway 26 construction project where road material caused numerous windshield breakages and the contractor's insurance ultimately covered the damage because there was substantial evidence that the construction itself was responsible. The practical takeaway becomes significantly less entertaining but much more useful: document what happened, contact the contractor, contact your insurance company if appropriate, and perhaps begin with a polite conversation instead of accusing a road worker of reenacting the Williams sisters with industrial landscaping equipment. The show then veers violently into vehicle-modification territory when a caller asks about something called a “headlight delete,” because apparently there are people who intentionally remove headlights from their vehicles and use the opening as an air intake for a turbocharger. Lieutenant Crane confirms that if a vehicle was manufactured with two headlights, both are required to be working, while motorcycles and certain other vehicles can have different requirements. This produces one of the most magnificent sequences of the episode, as everyone attempts to understand why anyone would remove a perfectly functional headlight to feed air to a turbo when the front of a vehicle already contains approximately seventeen million places where air can enter. Hood scoops are invoked. Grills are questioned. Windshields are briefly declared unnecessary. The concept of simply removing the windshield is floated as an aerodynamic alternative, despite the obvious problem of receiving a rock directly to the face. The caller then casually reveals that a large percentage of his automotive activities are misdemeanors, with perhaps two percent reaching felony territory, inspiring the proposed fashion statement: a jacket identifying him as a “98%er, 2% felony.” Then comes Chester's legendary traffic Bermuda Triangle. The discussion turns toward dangerous passing on Highway 20, impatient drivers attempting to overtake other vehicles even when a four-lane section is approaching, and the maddening phenomenon of passing someone aggressively only to arrive at the same stoplight in Ashton immediately afterward. Lieutenant Crain and the callers discuss traffic congestion, road improvements, Idaho Transportation Department planning, environmental studies, future roadway projects, and the eternal human struggle to convince drivers that waiting behind another vehicle for a little while is preferable to attempting to turn a perfectly ordinary commute into an audition for a disaster documentary. The caller wants to know how to make people more aware of upcoming passing lanes, while Viktor eventually proposes the only traffic-safety solution that has apparently survived eighteen years of research: tell people to stop being stupid. And then the show achieves its final form. A potential public-service announcement is invented on the spot: “Don’t be stupid,” allegedly courtesy of the Idaho State Police. The segment closes with the realization that the entire episode somehow disappeared in an instant, despite beginning with uncertainty over whether Lieutenant Crain was even expected to show up. Between windshield artillery, illegal license-plate covers, headlight removal, cowboy marriage traps, military-base security, radio contest callers, suspiciously dedicated workplace avoidance, and a proposed PSA consisting almost entirely of one sentence, this edition of Traffic School manages to answer actual driving-law questions while simultaneously making it sound like everyone involved should probably be supervised around heavy machinery.

This edition of Traffic School begins exactly where any responsible public-safety program should begin: with an extended investigation into the collapse of Kmart, the inflation-adjusted price of Little Caesars Hot-N-Ready pizza, the horrifying financial implications of diesel fuel, and the realization that a roll of Reynolds Wrap now costs enough money that aluminum foil has apparently become a precious metal. Lieutenant Crane is hanging out with Viktor, and the two immediately spiral into the economics of modern America, where a weekend road trip is now apparently a luxury reserved for oil sheiks and people who have discovered an abandoned refinery. Diesel prices have Viktor declaring that he is staying home, while Crane reveals his foolproof entrepreneurial strategy of drinking beer, crushing the cans, and selling the aluminum to finance more beer. This naturally evolves into Viktor discussing his attempt to stay off booze for the weekend, Crane suggesting that Viktor should simply move in with him and spend months becoming sober under police supervision, and Viktor proposing the much more reasonable strategy of hiding in his house with his cats, watching movies, drinking Mountain Dew, and refusing to encounter civilization. Once Traffic School officially begins, the show immediately becomes a public-service announcement wrapped inside a fever dream. With a holiday weekend approaching, listeners are encouraged to delay their departure long enough to call the program, because apparently camping spots will still exist several minutes later. The aluminum-can economy returns, complete with Crane's story about collecting 680 pounds of beer cans only to receive approximately $20.18 for his heroic labor, proving once and for all that capitalism has found a way to make physically transporting a small aluminum mountain somehow less profitable than simply leaving it in the garage. Then comes the first genuinely important warning of the episode: if you're planning on getting wild at a campground, remember that there may be cops camping nearby. They may not be wearing uniforms. They may be sitting in campers. They may be watching. The woods are no longer safe. The campground has become surveillance state: recreational edition. The first major traffic question concerns the subject that appears to have personally offended an entire generation of Idaho drivers: roundabouts. A listener asks how to properly navigate one, and Viktor essentially reduces the entire engineering achievement to, “Look left, and if it's clear, go,” while Crane dreams of creating a video in which Viktor is physically trapped inside a vehicle while Crane attacks a roundabout with enough enthusiasm to pin Viktor's face against the passenger window. The conversation then wanders into Idaho Falls road construction, a mysterious new South Boulevard roundabout, traffic studies, expanding roads, destroying everything standing beside them, and the general frustration of attempting to navigate a growing city without spontaneously developing a nervous twitch. The educational portion eventually establishes that drivers should use turn signals when appropriate, particularly when changing lanes or indicating their intentions, because the other people on the road may be spectacularly incapable of reading minds. Then the phones start ringing, and everything goes completely off the rails. One caller launches into an extremely enthusiastic complaint about an employee repeatedly arriving at work with beer cans falling out of her vehicle. Unfortunately, the caller deploys language that is far too spicy for terrestrial radio, forcing Viktor to frantically search for the dump button while apparently experiencing a near-fatal cardiac event. Crane jokes about needing to dispatch 911 because Viktor's heart has apparently stopped working, and the conversation becomes an accidental demonstration of why radio stations have emergency profanity buttons in the first place. The caller's daughter is also dragged into the situation, the dump button becomes a recurring character, and everyone seems increasingly concerned that the button has stopped lighting up. Meanwhile, Tractor Jeremy and Crazy Carl enter the picture, with the phone being passed around like a cursed artifact at a family reunion. Crazy Carl then delivers a photograph of Tractor Jeremy's tractor being pulled over by Bingham County law enforcement, although apparently this particular encounter occurred while they were doing something charitable. Crane grudgingly acknowledges that there are, in fact, some good cops, before Carl begins apologizing for the mysterious “Rexburg thing” from the previous week. Nobody can quite remember what the Rexburg thing was, Carl's medication apparently had not kicked in, and Viktor openly admits that conversations with Carl tend to evaporate from his brain the moment the call ends. Yet somehow, despite this, a future visit to the station is arranged, complete with shirts, prizes, gift cards, Peaches, and a firm request that nobody bring handcuffs. The whole sequence feels less like Traffic School and more like a loosely organized traveling circus that accidentally obtained a broadcast license. The educational segment resumes with a series of increasingly ridiculous questions, beginning with roundabout turn signals and escalating into Viktor's personal Star Wars-and-beer viewing habits. Crane wonders how Viktor has time to watch movies when he apparently spends half his existence in the bathroom, prompting Viktor to defend himself with the claim that he simply has a very large bladder and a conveniently located bathroom. From there, the show gets serious about holiday travel safety: check your tire pressure, inspect your tire tread, check antifreeze and oil, give your vehicle an overall once-over, and most importantly, put the phone down while driving. Grease Monkey receives a shout-out for vehicle service and its apparently dangerous supply of fresh-baked cookies, which Viktor claims he was only able to consume ten of before his vehicle was ready. The show then addresses one of humanity's most pressing traffic questions: Is it legal to bumper-push someone who refuses to move when the light turns green? The answer is essentially “please don't,” despite Viktor's initial wisecrack that it isn't illegal if nobody is watching. Crane explains that deliberately pushing another vehicle can create liability for following too closely and potentially cause damage, which Viktor has personally discovered through the extremely scientific research method of using his truck to push his daughter's disabled vehicle into a sloped parking lot. The conversation then mutates into an absolutely insane driver's-ed story about Crane's younger days, when an instructor allegedly explained that the purpose of old metal bumpers was to let people gently bump neighboring vehicles while parallel parking. Teenage boys, naturally, interpreted this as divine permission to repeatedly ram cars and apparently discovered that “bumpers are for bumping” is not actually a legally defensible driving philosophy. Next up: Why are freeway on-ramps so ridiculously long? The answer, thankfully, is not simply “to irritate Viktor,” even though that remains the unofficial emotional explanation. Crane explains that on-ramps provide space for drivers to accelerate to highway speed and merge without disrupting traffic, while off-ramps provide room to slow down. The important takeaway is that the accelerator pedal exists for a reason, and drivers should actually use it when merging rather than crawling toward the interst...

This episode of Traffic School begins with what sounds less like a legitimate radio program and more like two men standing outside a post office trying to resurrect the concept of 19th-century bounty hunting. Wanted posters come up almost immediately, along with the horrifying realization that Speaker 1 apparently considers himself an “outstanding young man,” despite the conversation rapidly turning toward suspicious behavior, mysterious electricity usage, heat sensors, and a house glowing so brightly that the government apparently needs to be informed. The conversation then takes a hard left into neighborhood fire trucks, elderly neighbors, Arizona vacations, and an absolutely bizarre story that is teased but never fully revealed because apparently even Traffic School has standards somewhere deep beneath the basement floor. Then, suddenly, it is time for actual law questions. The first major legal crisis involves a supposed dine-and-dash, except the alleged criminal mastermind insists he actually paid. During a birthday dinner for Peaches, the restaurant payment system apparently displayed multiple tickets, the correct bill was selected, the payment was processed, the waitress confirmed everything was fine, and everyone left. Later, however, the crew discovered that another group had apparently departed without paying, while a friend had paid the original bill. The payment itself initially showed as pending, creating a spectacular bureaucratic nightmare in which one person had apparently paid, another person had apparently paid, and everyone was now wondering who had technically stolen dinner from whom. The discussion spirals into whether dine-and-dash can become theft, whether intentionally entering a business with the plan to steal food could constitute burglary, and whether eating more than $1,000 worth of food would transform the situation into grand theft. The answer, delivered with the confidence of a man who has already been accused of crimes he didn't commit, is essentially: Carl, stop committing felonies. The episode then produces an incredible flashback involving Pizza Hut and a police captain who generously offered to buy pizza for everyone after a day at the gun range. The captain paid for his own meal and the lieutenant's, then apparently vanished into the sunset while everyone else assumed the bill had been handled. The waitress eventually stopped the remaining group and revealed the horrifying truth: the captain had not actually paid for everybody. He had merely paid for himself and one other person, leaving the sergeant to discover that he had accidentally inherited an entire restaurant bill. It becomes a masterclass in the ancient law-enforcement technique of saying, “The other guy said he was paying.” Then comes an actual public-service announcement: school is back in session. Drivers are urged to watch the yellow flashing lights because ignoring them may result in the sudden appearance of red and blue flashing lights. The hosts discuss people flying down Alameda Road, children riding bikes and skateboards, kids on electric scooters, and the general nightmare of trying to navigate roads while children are simultaneously excited about returning to school and apparently operating under the assumption that traffic laws are more of a suggestion. The conversation emphasizes defensive driving, paying attention, adding time to your commute, and remembering that Idaho is still in the “100 deadliest days of driving.” Then the show returns to the crucial matter of parking your car facing the wrong direction. Apparently this is generally governed by city ordinance, leading to a story about Burley enforcing the rule with enough enthusiasm to become a recurring character in the episode. Speaker 1 recalls parking backward in front of his own house, only to have an officer come to his door and inform him that his vehicle was illegally positioned. Unfortunately, the story gets worse because the car also contained a garbage bag full of beer cans from band practice. Although the beer cans were apparently leftovers from the previous night and the driver wasn't intoxicated when confronted, the visual of a police officer approaching a car parked illegally backward in front of a house containing a suspicious bag of beer cans is objectively spectacular. Somehow, he received only a warning. That leads into the bizarre discussion of seat-belt enforcement, including the claim that a seat belt violation is generally a secondary offense but that Burley apparently operates according to its own mysterious gravitational field. The hosts joke about officers finding additional reasons to initiate a traffic stop, including broken taillights and speeding. A story about an 80-mph freeway on-ramp then gets dragged into the conversation, with the horrifying realization that admitting “I'm used to getting on the freeway at 80” may not be the optimal strategy when speaking to law enforcement. The segment eventually clarifies the distinction between primary and secondary offenses and whether passengers or drivers can be cited when children aren't properly buckled. And then everything gets weird. The hosts suddenly ask whether guillotines are legal to possess. Nobody seems entirely certain, but the working theory is essentially that owning one may be legal while using it is where the problems begin. This leads directly into a story about a man who allegedly drove from California to Washington, D.C. with a gigantic guillotine mounted on the back of a flatbed truck. The group becomes increasingly fascinated by the logistical nightmare of transporting a giant head-chopping apparatus across the entire country without being stopped, especially because the guillotine apparently towers over the truck and might have presented a potential height violation. The conclusion is that even if the authorities weren't concerned about the historical implications of the device, somebody should probably have noticed the enormous guillotine sticking into the sky. The episode then receives a call from Deborah, who asks whether it is legal to have a hangman's noose hanging from the ceiling of your house. This question somehow leads to the revelation that Deborah owns multiple coffins built by her deceased husband, keeps swords and axes around the house, used to have a guillotine in her living room, got married on Halloween inside a funeral home while everyone was dressed in black, and apparently considers this all perfectly normal. The hosts attempt to process the fact that this is a real person's actual home while Deborah calmly explains that she and her husband simply loved Halloween. The conversation eventually becomes an accidental architectural tour of what may be the most intimidating house in Pocatello. That naturally leads to human remains. Another caller asks about transporting a casket or skeleton in a privately owned vehicle. The discussion distinguishes between decorative or 3D-printed skeletons and actual human remains, before the hosts discuss Idaho's law concerning human remains taken from graves or burial sites. Lieutenant Crane explains that, as of July 1, Idaho made it a felony to own, sell, or lease human remains taken from a grave, and that advertising them for sale is prohibited as well. The discussion then somehow turns to Facebook Marketplace and the horrifying possibility that someone might actually be browsing local listings for human bones. The skeleton conversation gets even darker when the hosts discuss excavators who have accidentally uncovered human remains in the region. In those cases, Idaho State University was reportedly brought in to help de...