This episode is less “serious history lecture” and more “History Channel after three shots of whiskey.” Nick and Ryan crack open the story of Hitler and the occult like two brothers who accidentally wandered into an Indiana Jones reboot filmed on a thrift-store budget. Between swigs of Pinot Noir and rye whiskey, they connect prophetic trench dreams, Nazi pig mascots, and Henry Ford’s very questionable hobbies into a wild ride through history’s strangest rabbit holes.

It’s part horror show, part comedy roast: Hitler morphs from failed trench rat to wannabe wizard-in-chief, cult societies demand ancestry tests stricter than Ancestry.com, and swastikas go from meaning “all is well” to “all is hell.” Along the way, we meet Dietrich Eckhart—an occultist life coach who teaches Hitler how not to eat like a feral raccoon at dinner parties—and Joseph Goebbels, the so-called “Poison Dwarf,” whose main superpower was being petty, venomous, and permanently limping his way through propaganda.

Between pendulum-wielding weirdos claiming they could sniff out Jews, wine tasting notes, Oktoberfest nostalgia, and more dad jokes than Germany had swastikas, this episode is a tragicomedy that makes you laugh, cringe, and wonder how the world ever let this circus go on.

Bottom line? It’s Nazis, nonsense, and booze-fueled banter—served with the kind of irreverence that proves history might be horrifying, but it’s also hilariously insane when told through the lens of two slightly buzzed brothers .

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This episode is basically Breaking Bad meets Parks and Rec, with less meth and way more paperwork. Our unsuspecting hero, Pete Forcelli, rolls into Phoenix ready to fight crime—only to discover the ATF is running what looks suspiciously like a cartel loyalty program. Buy 10 AK-47s, get the 11th free! Meanwhile, the U.S. Attorney’s Office can’t be bothered, because apparently prosecuting crimes is sooo last season.

Nick and Ryan dive headfirst into the madness, armed with booze, banter, and zero faith in government efficiency. Along the way we meet straw buyers dumber than a bag of hammers, FBI agents acting like Mean Girls (“you can’t sit with us unless you share your informants”), and one ATF guy skipping work to salsa dance in Colombia. Honestly, it’s less law enforcement and more reality TV—except with body counts.

Think Narcos narrated by two slightly buzzed uncles who alternate between outrage and dad jokes. It’s equal parts history lesson, roast of bureaucracy, and drinking game. By the end, you’ll know how gun laws (don’t) work, why prosecutors can ruin everything, and which Oktoberfest beer pairs best with tales of federal incompetence.

Bottom line: this isn’t just an episode—it’s a tragic comedy where Uncle Sam accidentally becomes the cartels’ favorite gun dealer.

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Forget CSI: Miami—this is CSI: Adelaide, where the corpses are dapper, the calves are suspiciously jacked, and the detectives are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Nick and Ryan crack open the mystery of the Somerton Man, a 1948 beachside “who-dunnit” featuring:

• A corpse dressed sharper than a banker on Derby Day, but with all his clothing tags cut off like he was sponsored by Goodwill’s Witness Protection Program.
• A secret scrap of paper reading “Tamám Shud” (translation: “The End,” or “plot twist, bitch”),
• Doctors who could only agree on two things: (1) this guy had elite ballerina calves, and (2) his liver was working as hard as Nick and Ryan’s after three old fashioneds.
• A suitcase full of clothes with no labels, a sewing kit with sketchy orange thread, and a missing penis pump (probably).
• A code in a Persian poetry book that no one has ever solved—because nothing says espionage like a half-finished Sudoku from 1100 A.D.

Along the way, you’ll meet Joe Thompson, the woman who “definitely didn’t know him” while nearly fainting at his face cast, and Greg the Professor, who somehow knew way too much about foxglove tea and poison arrows (we see you, Greg).

Bottom line: this isn’t Dateline—it’s a Cold War mystery retold by two brothers who measure credibility in whiskey pours and have decided the best legacy you can leave behind… is being remembered for your calves.

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