The Viktor Wilt Show

Viktor Wilt

5.0 (6)
NEWS
UPDATED DAILY

The Viktor Wilt Show daily recap! If you miss the show weekdays from 6A-10A MST, you've come to the right place.

1D AGO

#0308 - Mantis Shrimp Loaded the Sun Into a Fist - 02/13/2026

Friday claws its way out of the grave and immediately the studio smells like caffeine, sinus pressure, and destiny. The host staggers in, vibrating at a frequency normally reserved for haunted microwaves, whisper-yelling about the weekend like a prophet who has seen heaven and it’s just sleeping in. There are no plans. There will never be plans. Plans are a myth invented by restaurants that require reservations. The show begins the way all civilizations collapse: by reading internet factoids with the confidence of a man duct-taping knowledge directly to his brain. Words have 645 meanings. Basketball rims contain multitudes. Horses are biological extremists that refuse to breathe incorrectly. Somewhere in the distance a mantis shrimp cocks its fist like a loaded sun and time briefly folds into a terrified lawn chair. Congestion arrives. A nose becomes the central antagonist. We retreat. When we return, morale has not improved. The content well is dry, so we lower the bucket into the screaming abyss of “cool facts” and pull up parasites that replace tongues, mountain lions with expensive taste in cologne, and the dawning realization that Google could legally ruin a person’s entire morning. Winter might come back next week, which is rude. The vibe is fragile. It is 7 a.m. and existence already needs a nap. It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, the annual festival of romantic administrative panic. A nugget ice maker has been deployed as tribute. Horoscopes are consulted like cursed weather reports written by emotionally unstable wizards. One website says ROAD TRIP, BABY. Another says FIGHT YOUR LOVER IN A TARGET PARKING LOT OF THE SOUL. A third refuses to elaborate and leaves. Destiny has been outsourced to banner ads. Confidence plummets into a decorative ditch. Then—the villain reveal—the Airbnb dispute. One mysterious human gum in the machinery of life has locked the account. Bureaucracy tightens its little tie. Customer service promises to “review everything,” which is corporate for we have placed your dreams in a jar and shaken it until they learned fear. Romance is now logistics. Love is now passwords. Fury becomes a weather system. We pivot to freak news because the normal news is too full of spiritual asbestos. Ireland is haunted by a root vegetable that wants you dead. Don’t touch it. Don’t look at it. If you even whisper “carrot,” your organs clock out early. Meanwhile, in Norway, capitalism whispers sweetly: have a baby on the release date of Grand Theft Auto VI and the game is FREE. Congratulations on the childbirth; please enjoy never playing it. Parenthood speedruns the concept of spare time directly into the sea. Music erupts. New tracks fall from the sky like raccoons fired from God. The brain tries to schedule fifteen responsibilities and instead invents exhaustion 2.0. A pickleball match in Florida mutates into senior-citizen gladiator combat. Paddles swing. Respectability dies in capri pants. Somewhere, a country club chandelier writes its memoir. Then we discover a place calling itself a dive bar with a dress code so strict it might actually be a courtroom for crimes against vibes. No hoodies on heads. No baggy clothes. No joy. The word “dive” has been kidnapped and replaced with laminated disappointment. Civilization trembles. Peaches enters, fresh from an oil-change purgatory that lasted roughly the runtime of human regret. Grease Monkey propaganda begins immediately. Cookies are invoked like ancient currency. Travel stories devolve into screaming, airports, mortality, and the sacred rule: never vacation with someone who white-knuckles reality. New music. More caffeine. Two meetings threaten lunch like bureaucrats stealing a sandwich in slow motion. Time accelerates toward noon. The show signs off not with closure, but with survival. Friday has been wrestled into submission, barely, and the weekend waits in the distance holding a pillow like a promise or a threat.

35 min
1D AGO · BONUS

Traffic School - You Cannot Outrun Math But They Tried Anyway - 02/13/2026

The broadcast opens with Viktor already spiritually exhausted, wedged between caffeine deficiency and modern customer-service betrayal, while Lieutenant Crain materializes like a lawful paladin who had to be dragged out of bed by destiny itself. Within seconds, we’re arguing about dive bar discrimination, fashion crimes, and the constitutional right to vibe incorrectly. A uniformed officer walks into a bar for a check and is told to leave, which is the purest American poetry ever written. No one is safe. Not hospitality. Not dignity. Not Viktor’s Airbnb rating, which has been assassinated by a hallway he wasn’t even standing in. Somewhere in Salt Lake City, a condo corridor has declared war on this man. Crazy J calls in like a sleep-deprived oracle whose prophecies are made entirely of side comments and open tabs. He contributes nothing and everything. He is wind chimes made of bail money. Then the ritual begins: the summoning of callers. Ravonda, patron saint of Bad Decisions O’Clock, announces she is actively committing crimes in real time and would like the state police to notice her. She might have open containers, she might not, she might be hands-free, she might be spiritually hands-free, we may never know. Lieutenant Crain calmly explains the law while Viktor provides color commentary like a man watching raccoons figure out fireworks. Ravonda exits the call the way legends do: by promising future paperwork. Immediately, normal humans attempt to restore order by asking real questions, but the show has tasted chaos and demands more. A guy asks how to treat a Y intersection with no signage, and suddenly we’re in Driver’s Ed taught by thunder. Yield to the left because that’s the kill side. CASUAL. JUST A LITTLE MORTALITY WITH YOUR COFFEE. Another caller wants to know how long he can run on a bill of sale in the back window. Seven days in-state, twenty-eight out-of-state. The Pinto is coughing. The horsepower is a rumor. Windows are optional. The American Dream is flapping in the wind like unsecured paperwork. Then we descend into the cathedral of Radar Discourse. “Am I legally allowed to see the radar?” No ❤️. What follows is a masterclass in how speed is detected, verified, emotionally processed, and spiritually accepted while every driver in the audience remembers the sacred Nose Dive of Shame when you spot a trooper and try to compress physics with your brake pedal. Viktor begins to sweat because math appears. Lieutenant Crain remains patient, explaining visual estimation, tone acquisition, target lock, fastest vs. strongest return, and discretion, which is the most powerful magic spell in law enforcement. A motorcyclist attempts to lawyer the universe into allowing Fun Speeds. The answer is maybe, but don’t be dumb, which is both legal advice and life advice. Bryce calls about a missing speed limit sign like he’s discovered a tear in the fabric of municipal authority. The pole is there. The number is gone. Somewhere a college kid is decorating a dorm room with felony chic. Meanwhile, Valentine’s Day hovers over the studio like a threat assessment. “She said I don’t need anything.” WRONG. INCORRECT. MEDICAL EMERGENCY. Radar detectors are legal unless you’re commercial, which leads to the revelation that the same guy used to sell both the radar and the detector, which is capitalism achieving enlightenment. Then we get defenestration. A man in Georgia is thrown through a Waffle House window and asks if gravity carries charges. Yes. Everyone gets charges. The window also gets charges. Insurance gets charges. Reality gets charges. Jaywalking appears and becomes philosophical. Someone heard in Pocatello it might be legal. The internet says absolutely not. Students near Idaho State University are playing live-action Frogger next to The Advocates like tuition reimbursement might fall from the sky if a bumper kisses destiny. Crazy J returns because time is a circle and so is he. We learn you can load a vehicle with humans as long as seatbelts are buckled and the driver can still, you know, operate existence. Clown car jurisprudence. Finally. The founding fathers weep with pride. By the end, Ravonda is at the bar, Carl is in the back seat because license reasons, Jay is in the street, and Viktor is begging for caffeine while insisting this was educational. And somehow? It was.

40 min
2D AGO

#0307 - France Wants Babies, I Want A Nap, The Elephants Want Blood - 02/12/2026

Strap in. Coffee is irrelevant. Reality is peeling like wallpaper and Viktor Wilt is back in the studio with post-road-trip brain, haunted by fog, emails, and the vague spiritual residue of gas-station caffeine. The man returned from Salt Lake City, watched Wrong Turn, slept the sleep of the temporarily dead, and still woke up feeling like Monday had crawled into Thursday wearing a fake mustache. To reboot his CPU he opens a thread of immortal movie quotes and immediately speed-runs civilization: “Welcome to Jurassic Park,” “Run, Forrest, Run” from Forrest Gump, the airplane reptile festival known as Snakes on a Plane, wizard yelling from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, ghost kid from The Sixth Sense, volleyball grief from Cast Away, axe-through-door hospitality from The Shining, limb-loss optimism in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and robot catchphrases from The Terminator. The brain is awake now. Unfortunately so is society. We swerve into skills people should have, which becomes Viktor gently grading himself like a substitute teacher who misplaced authority but found humility. Communication? C-plus on a windy day. Apologizing? Olympic tier, sorry about everything, sorry in advance, pre-apology sent. Budgeting? Spiritually allergic. DIY? Call JD and scream. Media literacy? PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, FACEBOOK, DRINK SOME WATER. Then the phones ignite. Dusty materializes from the fog like a trucker oracle: multi-car pileup near McCammon, visibility bad, drive like your mom is in the back seat holding soup. Viktor flashes back to vehicular mortality, cresting a hill into mist with a car that likes to die for drama. Existential dread achieved. We live here now. OUTRAGE O’CLOCK. Somewhere, a politician wants to investigate hip movement during the Super Bowl halftime show, which triggers the ancient American ritual of Pretending We’ve Never Seen Dancing Before. Caller energy crackles in. Hypocrisy is named. Cheerleaders exist. Music has always been scandalous. People once clutched pearls at The Beatles while meanwhile Elvis Presley was out there inventing televised pelvis. Perspective returns briefly before evaporating like common sense in July. Red flags appear, capitalism sighs, toilet paper gets worse, morale gets thinner. Then gambling discourse explodes: prediction markets, suspicious accuracy, halftime clairvoyants, geopolitical Nostradamus types making six figures because someone somewhere rehearsed something somewhere. Viktor’s solution is elegant and dadlike: don’t gamble, dummy, the house eats bones. Nature update: elephants chase man → man flees into river → crocodile clocks in for shift. The food chain has unionized. Humanity is down bad. Phones ring again, but it’s a song request, the universe teasing us with normalcy before freak news punts us in the spine. A drug dealer inspired by Home Alone rigs his house like a Looney Tunes level and then acts shocked when law enforcement interprets “ELECTRIFIED COFFIN TIME” signage as suspicious. A boxer loses his toupee mid-punch and blames shampoo, which is incredible PR for razors everywhere. Someone can now buy Breaking Bad house money pit for the low, low price of eternal tourism and pizza roof trauma. France wants babies. Social media wants perfection. Viktor predicts a future where people date chatbots while the birth rate quietly packs a suitcase and leaves a note on the fridge. Jake Davis arrives, sleep-deprived, reporting Airbnb mattress crimes and fog that manufactures ice armor for headlights. The vibe is: survive the commute, then burrow. Civic duty segment: vote for the station, crush rivals, radio vs. podcast cage match, somebody somewhere talking trash, competitive pettiness but with a smile you can hear. CRIME RETURNS. A jewelry thief exits on a donkey at the speed of medieval regret and buries loot in dirt like a pirate with no sequel planning. A former colonel texts classified info to impress a date, which ends with prison because romance is temporary but screenshots are eternal. Wildlife epilogue: a woman feeds raccoons for forty years and is stunned when a raccoon convention forms a HOA in her yard. A hundred tiny bandits demanding tribute. Authorities shrug in bureaucratic raccoon. And just like that, Thursday limps toward freedom. Viktor would rather be asleep, but he rode the lightning of quotes, fog, outrage, animals, and civic pride and came out the other side mostly intact, whispering to Friday like it’s a myth he intends to prove.

51 min
FEB 6 · BONUS

Traffic School - Look Left and Go (Unless You’re Suing Us) - 02/06/2026

This episode of Traffic School Powered by the Advocates opens like a fever dream broadcast directly from a squad car parked halfway between a radio studio and a Home Depot parking lot. Lieutenant Crain materializes on air like a haunted Big Head Mode apparition from Family Feud, immediately establishing dominance as both law enforcement and accidental recurring jump scare. From there, the show spirals immediately into intergenerational chaos: feral grandkids, TikTok animals attempting car theft, and the sobering realization that winter never came but everyone still panic-bought snow equipment anyway. Snowblowers are purchased out of spite. Snow machines sit unused, staring at their owners like disappointed mechanical gods. Crazy J is quietly replaced by capitalism. The weather discourse mutates into a full-on omen reading: motorcycles, hoverboards, electric scooters—everything crawling out of storage like it’s spring, which of course means impending disaster. The cops politely beg the audience not to die. The hosts politely ignore this and instead decide the real emergency is training Jeff to answer the phones, a task that proves more dangerous than any traffic violation. Calls come in. Calls drop. Calls are hung up on intentionally. Jeff learns through exposure therapy. Then the callers arrive in force, and the episode fully derails. A school bus driver confirms what we all feared: people are feral around stop arms, and the police are about to unleash citation hell like it’s a limited-time DLC event. Wide-load trucks spark mirror-swapping trauma. A roaming mobile bar is reported to be both “in the car” and “in the bar” simultaneously, triggering an all-points bulletin that exists exclusively as a bit. Crazy Carl calls in to announce that he can build snowblowers in his sleep and invites everyone—including a mystery woman named Ravonda—to drink at a brewery across from a museum of clean, which somehow makes sense in context. The episode reaches peak enlightenment during a roundabout discourse so powerful it causes a caller to jokingly claim they crashed live on air after following the show’s advice too literally. Legal disclaimers evaporate. Responsibility is deflected onto corporate insurance. AI-powered 911 systems are revealed. Parked cars are struck. Notes are left on windshields like ancient apology scrolls. Courtesy driving is debated as both a moral philosophy and a potential misdemeanor. By the end, the hosts are exhausted, Jeff has survived training, the cops are still here, and the audience has learned absolutely everything and nothing about traffic law all at once. Civilization barely holds.

33 min
FEB 5

#0306 - The Weasel Broke the Machine in 2016 and Nothing Loaded Correctly After That - 02/05/2026

This episode doesn’t start so much as it boots up mid-error, like reality forgot to load properly and just shrugged. The show staggers in on fumes—instant coffee, raw meat energy drink lore, and the haunting realization that it’s Thursday again, which in the simulation is the day specifically designed to test whether you’ll give up. Music fires off like a defibrillator, concert plugs rain down like prophecy fragments, and the calendar itself feels hostile, bloated with shows that demand money, PTO, and physical endurance the human body no longer possesses. Every band announcement feels less like excitement and more like a checklist for survival in 2026, a year already vibrating wrong. From there, the cracks widen. Corporate radio isn’t just lazy—it’s NPC behavior, DJs reduced to listicle-slaves churning out “illegal trash items” content like the simulation ran out of dialogue trees. The world becomes a landfill tutorial, where throwing away paint might explode, light bulbs are forbidden artifacts, and needles lurk in garbage bags like cursed loot. Even the dump isn’t safe—authority figures must be consulted to correctly dispose of your sins. Normal life has turned into a compliance mini-game with hidden fail states. Then the news feed glitches violently. A man dies after putting his head in a deep fryer—an act so absurd it feels like a corrupted NPC animation. Another breaks into a Little Caesars not to steal money, but to manufacture pizza, grinding capitalism the wrong way like someone misunderstood the objective. A New Jersey man escapes the cops in a high-speed chase, only to call them afterward, as if compelled by the simulation to reset his own checkpoint. Intelligence stats are clearly bugged across the map. Nature starts fighting back. Bison circle a man in the woods like they know something he doesn’t—like they can see the hitbox of his fear. Florida unveils the Tree of Death, a biological trap asset that poisons, burns, blinds, and kills while producing fruit that looks friendly, sweet, and clickable. Somewhere else, a human skull gets donated to Goodwill, casually tossed into the economy like the simulation forgot to flag it as a quest item. The dead are leaking into thrift stores now. That feels important. HOAs emerge as mid-level bosses, forbidding generators during ice storms because warmth violates aesthetic code. Freeze quietly, citizen. Rules matter more than survival. Relationships fracture next—exes demanding friendship like corrupted save files refusing to delete. You are not required to keep obsolete characters loaded. Sometimes you must hit “remove” or the game will crash harder. Then the meta-layer kicks in. A hyper-nerd compiles 900 lists to determine the greatest video games of all time, and the results feel… wrong. Red Dead Redemption 2 buried at 38th like forbidden scripture. GoldenEye ranked above it. This isn’t opinion—it’s evidence. The list exposes a truth: the algorithm is lying, nostalgia weighting is broken, and consensus reality can no longer be trusted. GTA 6 looms like a guaranteed economic singularity, destined to make billions instantly because no one has free will anymore. At this point, the show openly acknowledges the fracture. Aliens from parallel universes might be everywhere. CERN’s weasel incident didn’t just shut down a collider—it split the timeline. Everything post-2016 feels off because it is. We are in the Weasel Timeline now. Political feeds become unbearable visual noise, and male politicians wear increasingly aggressive makeup, their blush glowing like overheating texture maps desperately trying to keep ancient character models from collapsing into dust. Everyone is too old, too fake, too rendered. Public spaces become threat zones. Gas stations turn into stealth missions. Downtown encounters feel randomized and hostile. Men approach windows like jump-scare events. You don’t owe anyone interaction anymore—the simulation has too many bad actors. Trust is deprecated. By the end, the host is barely upright, caffeine ineffective, reality buzzing, still obligated to promote a luncheon like a side quest you can’t skip. The raw meat energy drink doesn’t wake him up—it just keeps the screen from fading to black. The episode doesn’t resolve. It times out. Another broadcast completed. Another day survived inside a system clearly spiraling, glitching, looping—waiting for either a patch, a hard reset, or total collapse. And somehow, tomorrow is still Friday-adjacent.

40 min
JAN 30

#0305 - We’re Old, Metal Is Mainstream, and the Elves Are Real Now - 01/30/2026

The episode kicks off like a man crawling out of the wreckage of his own circadian rhythm, openly blaming law enforcement for his lack of sleep because Lieutenant Crain had the audacity to be on Family Feud, forcing a late-night pilgrimage to Rexburg’s Fat Cats where the theater was packed tighter than a McDonald’s PlayPlace at 9 PM. After witnessing the Crain family battle Steve Harvey’s curse under studio lights, the night spirals into late-night McDonald’s negotiations with a child who remembers every promise ever made, resulting in indoor dining, toy inspections, and the slow death of Viktor’s sleep schedule. By morning, he’s raw-meat-energy-drink deep, philosophizing about survival via Honey Badger Mentality, spite, fear of death, and the looming promise of Ghost concerts and GTA 6 as the only reasons to continue existing. From there, the episode becomes a scorched-earth rant against modern rock radio as Viktor discovers only five stations nationwide have played Motionless In White’s new song, confirming that programmers are either asleep, afraid, or spiritually dead. This segues seamlessly into a full-blown “we’re old now” spiral where cassette tapes get eaten, card catalogs haunt libraries, and classic rock is redefined as music you personally remember coming out. Freak news detonates the show completely: a Florida man gets arrested at a strip club after buying flowers with counterfeit “FOR MOTION PICTURE USE ONLY” money while carrying meth, a machete-wielding neighbor can’t handle rejection, a man terrorizes strangers demanding a Pepsi, and Chinese mushroom diners start seeing tiny elf janitors crawling up their walls if they don’t cook dinner long enough. Just when reality can’t possibly fracture further, Idaho Falls is rocked by a LOOSE GOAT, photographed casually strolling down Yellowstone Highway like it pays taxes, briefly becoming the most important civic issue in Eastern Idaho. The show then barrels into debates about what “metal” even means anymore, whether Imagine Dragons counts as rock (fight breaks out), why country radio is broken, and how 105 Outlaw is secretly the best thing to happen to music since outlaw country decided to revolt against pop twang. By the time the episode limps toward the finish line, Viktor is hate-listening to a local podcast that won’t say his name, ranting about AI intros, bitter hosts, and living rent-free in a man’s brain — before teasing traffic school, concert giveaways, and more chaos to come. This episode doesn’t end. It survives.

1h 7m
JAN 30 · BONUS

Traffic School - Crain Missed $20,000 By Nine Points And A Goat Is Loose - 01/30/2026

This episode of Traffic School detonates immediately like a raw-meat-fueled fever dream, kicking off with Lieutenant Crain—local law enforcement icon, accidental celebrity, and freshly minted Family Feud warrior—being paraded like a conquering hero whose two seconds of fame have allegedly expired but absolutely have not. What follows is a spiraling, caffeinated, mic-malfunctioning descent into behind-the-scenes Family Feud chaos: Steve Harvey roasting the Crain family into oblivion, watermelon answers that defy God and logic, hand soap humiliation, toilet paper betrayal, and the brutal realization that the human brain turns into microwave static the second a game-show clock starts ticking. Between tales of edited-out laughter, Steve Harvey physically recoiling from the Crain family, and the emotional devastation of missing $20,000 by NINE STUPID POINTS, the show veers hard into classic Traffic School anarchy—callers fighting over speed limits like it’s the Constitution, drunk fictional callers confessing crimes on-air, goats terrorizing Idaho roadways, cops wrestling livestock into patrol cars, and officers sharing war stories about almost pooping themselves in the line of duty. The phones light up with questions about passing in residential zones, evading tickets by driving uglier cars, the science of being the “least pull-overable” vehicle in a speeding pack, and whether throwing water, spit, or vibes at someone constitutes battery. Somewhere in the middle, the show becomes a philosophical debate about criminal stupidity, counterfeit drug empires, lottery winners turning into Walter White at age 65, and the eternal truth that if criminals were smart, cops would have nothing to talk about. By the end, everyone is exhausted, slightly haunted, deeply entertained, and spiritually altered—because this wasn’t just an episode of Traffic School, it was a live broadcast of chaos theory wearing a badge and screaming about goats.

39 min
JAN 29

#0304 - Rock Radio Is Cowardly and Maroon 5 Sucks - 01/28/2026

This episode of The Viktor Wilt Show is a caffeinated, sleep-deprived, raw-meat-energy–fueled descent into the fragile psyche of a man desperately trying to survive a Wednesday while the universe pelts him with internet nonsense, maggot coffee lore, and the crushing realization that it is, in fact, not Friday. Viktor opens the show battling a phantom illness, an aggressive lack of sleep, and a crushing sense of midweek despair, washing it all down with what can only be described as a legally questionable “raw meat energy drink.” From there, the episode spirals outward into a full-blown auditory doomscroll: neighbors calling cops over 2 PM vacuuming, Reddit threads filled with professional whiners, and a firm declaration that if you can’t handle basic apartment noise, you should simply go live in a trailer and reflect on your life choices. The show ricochets between rants about moving couches, hauling amps, and the eternal curse of rearranging studios, before pivoting violently into musical heresy—Maroon 5 is declared a sonic war crime, Ghost and Sleep Token are both defended and condemned, and listeners with “bad taste” are politely threatened with 15-minute Tool songs as punishment. As the episode mutates further, Viktor leads listeners through a grotesque catalog of everyday horrors: warm toilet seats, sink sponges teeming with invisible sins, hair-clogged drains vomiting goo demons, mouth sounds, hospital elevator buttons, and the existential dread of veins doing their job. This naturally segues into drunken global chaos, including a pantsless U.S. soldier waking up in a German retirement home, a man casually driving a flaming car into a field like it’s a side quest, and Starbucks allegedly flirting with maggot-based beverage innovation. Viktor also declares total war on mosquitoes, advocates for their complete extermination, and briefly dreams of abandoning society to live in a van in the Arizona desert with the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous crowd—before remembering gas prices and snapping back to reality. The episode barrels through celebrity nonsense (bras on the Hollywood sign), Netflix allegedly underpaying a man who free-climbed a skyscraper like a human glitch, the eternal failure of rock radio to accept that heavy music is already mainstream, and the agony of labels being afraid of guitars that growl too loudly. The whole thing limps triumphantly across the finish line with ticket giveaways, tour-name flexing, Family Feud conspiracies involving Lieutenant Crain, and Viktor openly negotiating with the universe for a nap, a snow-free winter, and the sweet mercy of Thursday. It’s not the best show. It’s not the worst show. It’s a feral broadcast surviving purely on spite, riffs, and stubborn momentum—and honestly, that’s the point.

46 min

TRAILER

The Viktor Wilt Show

The Viktor Wilt Show - weekdays 6A-10A MST on KCVI KBear 101 Follow me everywhere: http://www.viktorwilt.com Visit our website: https://riverbendmediagroup.com/kbear101/ Follow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kbear101fm Follow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/kbear101fm Subscribe to our YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@KBear101RMG Follow us on X/Twitter: https://x.com/kbear101fm

11/21/2024

•

1 min

5

out of 5

6 Ratings

The Viktor Wilt Show daily recap! If you miss the show weekdays from 6A-10A MST, you've come to the right place.

Creator

Viktor Wilt
Years Active

2024 - 2026
Episodes

389
Rating

Explicit
Copyright

© Riverbend Media Group
Show Website

The Viktor Wilt Show