Conspiracy of Two Podcast

This episode is like That 70’s Show if everyone quit smoking weed and started listening to a lunatic with a busted guitar. Charles Manson, the world’s angriest pint-sized folk singer, strums a guitar badly enough to start a murder cult. He couldn’t land a record deal, so he settled for recruiting a bunch of barefoot hippies who thought desert dirt was a food group. Nick and Ryan dive into Manson’s “career,” which is basically a blooper reel: stealing cars, bombing auditions, and somehow turning campfire kumbayas into cult recruitment sessions. Meanwhile, his “family” is out there treating felonies like summer camp crafts, nodding along as if the nonsense made sense. Fueled by tequila and whiskey, the brothers roast Manson’s logic harder than a campfire marshmallow, pointing out how the scariest part isn’t just the murders, but the fact that Hollywood insiders actually entertained this guy’s music dreams. It’s a mix of cult psychology, 1960s chaos, and jokes sharp enough to cut through the acid haze. It's a cocktail of horror and hilarity, proving that sometimes the only thing scarier than a cult leader is his mixtape.

Stanley Milford Jr. didn’t sign up to fight monsters—he signed up to be a ranger. But on the Navajo rez, that meant one part lawman, one part tour guide, and one part “oh crap, was that a skinwalker doing 65 next to my Chevy?” Nick and Ryan dive into the career of the world’s first Supernatural Ranger—a guy who basically lived in a crossover episode of Cops and The X-Files. His greatest hits? A demonic spellbook casually hanging out in his house, gas burners firing up like Gordon Ramsay’s hell kitchen, 26 sheep drained like vampiric Capri Suns, and Bigfoot treating sheep corrals like Golden Corral. Toss in UFO sightings, shadow stalkers, and locals who shrug off skinwalkers like they’re just another pothole. The locals shrug it off—“yep, skinwalkers again”—while Stanley files reports that read like porno scripts written by Stephen King: midnight pounding, heavy breathing, and invisible hands grabbing you in all the wrong places. And you’ve got the résumé from hell. Nick and Ryan keep it all stitched together with whiskey reviews, Nicolas Cage tangents, and the eternal question: do you cuff Bigfoot or just let him go with a warning? Bottom line: it’s less “protect and serve” and more “holy sh*t, swerve!”—a booze-soaked tragicomedy where law enforcement meets paranormal porn parody—which is equal parts terrifying, hilarious, and just raunchy enough to make you wonder if Bigfoot should have to register as a sex offender.

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 .

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.

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.

This episode isn’t so much “paranormal investigation” as it is Ghostbusters meets Dumb and Dumber, with extra booze and a demon who apparently hates plumbing. Nick and Ryan unpack the saga of the Smurl family, whose Pennsylvania duplex turned into a 15-year carnival of supernatural nonsense. First it was rugs growing stains faster than toddlers with Kool-Aid, then rocking chairs that refused to respect personal boundaries and eventually TVs catching fire like God’s version of a parental block. Things escalate into full-on nightmare fuel: invisible slap fights, levitation, and one truly unfortunate bout of demonic coitus that sounds less like The Exorcist and more like Ghost Hunters After Dark.. Oh, and let’s not forget Casper taking a dump” because who doesn't like supernatural shit? By the time Ed and Lorraine Warren show up to poke the supernatural bear with prayers and holy water, the house is less “family home” and more “Hell’s Airbnb.” We’re talking shadow figures, demonic wing-flaps, and bloodcurdling screams that can only drive the surrounding property values through the roof! Fueled by rum, rye whiskey, and banter sharp enough to cut through ectoplasm, Nick and Ryan turn this 1970s nightmare into a tragicomic romp. Bottom line: it’s a literal shitshow— Starring demons, diapers, and dookie!

Forget meditation apps—this episode is your guide to living (and sleeping) with paranormal freeloaders. Nick and Ryan crack open the bizarre world of shadow people, those trench-coat creeps who love showing up uninvited at 3 a.m. to stand in the corner like unpaid interns at your anxiety convention. Step one: meet “The Hat Man,” basically a fedora-wearing sleep paralysis coach whose only advice is “scream quietly.” Step two: get cozy with the glowing red-eyed lurkers who pop out of closets yelling “Not my fault!” like they’re trying to dodge child support. And step three: don’t forget the hooded figures—half guardian angel, half goth roommate—who can’t decide if they’re here to hug you or choke you. Families live with these things for decades, hospitals report them hanging around sick kids, and bathrooms somehow become the stage for shadow people’s favorite jump-scare burlesque. Bottom line: this isn’t therapy—it’s terror with a punchline. Think of it as a lifestyle guide for anyone stuck with paranormal voyeurs, delivered by two brothers with more whiskey than coping skills.

This episode is less Close Encounters and more “Hold My Beer, Jesus” as Nick and Ryan stumble through the life of Chris Bledsoe—a man whose existence plays like the world’s darkest blooper reel before aliens show up to make things weirder. By age 10 he’d already been shot in the back, lit on fire, and busted his face on a bunk bed; by 20, his wife died in his arms and he fell off scaffolding. Naturally, the only logical next step was UFO abduction. When Chris finally catches a “break,” it’s not financial stability—it’s three suns in the sky, glowing orbs with mechanical eyelids, and his teenage son paralyzed in the woods like a rejected X-Files subplot. Add in time-loss confusion, nine lights doing synchronized sky-raves, and government suits sniffing around, and suddenly his IBS doesn’t seem like the worst thing in his life. Naturally, the whole gang witnesses UFOs doing synchronized swimming routines in the night sky, and their collective reaction is: “Forget the cooler—LEAVE.” (Because who needs beer when you’ve just been probed by interdimensional light orbs?) This episode has it all: government coverups, glowing entities, time slips, and a man whose autobiography could double as both a country song and an X-Files script. Bottom line: it’s not divine revelation—it’s alien domination, and Chris Bledsoe is either chosen by God or just the galaxy’s favorite plaything.

This isn’t Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No”—it’s “Just Say WTF”, as Nick and Ryan stumble through the rise of fentanyl: the drug so potent it makes heroin look like chamomile tea. The boozed up brothers discuss the rise of fentanyl, the opioid crisis, and why Big Pharma basically turned America into one giant painkiller trial nobody signed up for. Highlights include: Funeral Rave Grandma Edition — where Xanax gets passed out like Werther’s Originals and the front row looks like a nursing home zombie apocalypse. Bottom-Shelf Bourbon Science — because apparently whiskey reviewers can taste “sawdust and wood oil” (translation: that guy was already on fent). Paging Dr. Dumbass — the medical philosophy that “you can’t get addicted if you’re in pain,” which is the scientific equivalent of “calories don’t count if you eat standing up.” Drug Pigs & Charlotte’s Web 2.0 — because why shouldn’t children’s books double as narcotic branding guides? The Russian Hostage Rescue Plan™ — nothing says “strategic genius” like hosing down 800 civilians with fentanyl gas and then shrugging when 120 don’t make it. By the time the rogue chemist with “prison ethics” shows up, and cocaine retirees start dropping like flies, you’ll realize the opioid epidemic isn’t a crisis—it’s a Coen Brothers dark comedy accidentally directed by Michael Bay. Bottom line: Fentanyl isn’t just a drug, it’s Darwin’s favorite party trick—and your only defense is praying your dealer owns a calculator.

This episode plays out like Mad Max: Hippie edition, with Charles Manson leading a ragtag gang of desert weirdos who thought they were preparing for the apocalypse but really just look like extras from a bad B-movie. By Part 2, Manson’s “Family” has fully drunk the Kool-Aid (or maybe just the bad acid) and they’re carrying out his insane vision of Helter Skelter—a race war supposedly hidden in Beatles lyrics that only he could decode. Nick and Ryan, sipping their way through the madness, paint the picture of Manson directing chaos like an off-Broadway producer with zero budget and way too much LSD. The “Family” isn’t so much a group of killers as they are the world’s worst improv troupe: Yes, and… let’s stab strangers to start the apocalypse The comedy comes from the sheer absurdity: dune buggy war squads, desert hideouts that were supposed to be “end times headquarters,” and a cult leader whose only real talent was making nonsense sound profound to people who were too high to notice. At its core, it’s an unflinching look at how one delusional wannabe rockstar managed to turn peace-loving hippies into the world’s least competent death squad.

Forget Dan Brown—this is more like Monty Python meets National Treasure, with a heavy pour of tequila and bourbon. Nick and Ryan stumble headfirst into the saga of the Knights Templar, nine medieval dudes who thought poverty and celibacy sounded like a good time—as long as they still got horses and swords. Somehow, these broke monks reinvented themselves as history’s first bankers, inventing the medieval version of Venmo, before getting absolutely wrecked on Friday the 13th (yep, that’s why the date still gives you the creeps). Along the way we get shady Popes, power-tripping kings, and a superstition-shattering plot twist that wrecked more than just their order. The Templar fleet vanishes faster than Ryan’s Don Roberto tequila, possibly reappearing in Scotland just in time to help Braveheart’s bros kick England’s ass. Fast-forward a few centuries and suddenly we’re in New York, with a wannabe castle on the Hudson hiding secret brass seals, octopus carvings, and coded instructions that scream “insert Indiana Jones theme music here.” Bottom line: it’s less “holy order” and more “holy sh*t,” with history, booze, and enough conspiracy fuel to keep Reddit going for decades.