No Justice, No Peace

I was wasted.

Not wasted in the room-is-spinning-please-make-it-stop sort of way, but wasted in the giggling-on-the-couch-watching-QVC type. There’s something I really love about QVC, particularly when the products being pitched approach points of absurdity. I’m not, for instance, going to be interested in watching two women talk about a dress or a pair of earrings, but when they’re trying to sell me 347 knives and swords for $400? Sign me up. I’m not actually in danger of being talked into a ridiculous purchase, but these salespeople are the true unsung heroes of television. They wouldn’t have a job if they couldn’t push the product, and with all the inherent costs associated with running a TV network, you’ve got to push a lot of knives and swords in twenty minutes to earn your keep. My favorite part is when the guy is handling a big Bowie knife and keeps twirling it in his hand. It’s part hypnotic, and part sideshow carnie barker, along the same level of impressiveness as the Mexican guys slapping the porno/hooker booklets into their palms on the streets of Vegas.

When I’m in that giddy state of inebriation, whatever you’re selling, I’m willing to hear your pitch.

On yet another of my aimless 2AM trips up and down the channels of my local cable system, looking for anything remotely funny to keep me entertained, I landed on the Public Access Channel, where you too can be a TV star.

What drew me in was his hat. “No Justice, No Peace,” ironed on to a “trucker hat,” a few years before the kitsch value of plastic netting made a comeback. It was obvious he had the same slogan hastily added to a just slightly small T-shirt from the bottom of his dresser, as “O JUSTI” was visible in an arc across the top of his chest.

This was a man with an axe to grind.

The man, or Roger, as I came to know him, was one of those old gruff-looking ex-Marine types. He was sitting onscreen with nothing but the top half of his torso and that hat visible, with a plastic fern just behind him. While the homemade hat got me to stop, it was his impassioned pleas that kept me tuned in.

“This is a group,” Roger began, in very vague terms, “of so-called ‘professionals’ that are not regulated by any single body. Not by the AMA, like our doctors. Not by the government, like the people who are responsible for investing our money. These are people with unchecked power who are absolutely not accountable for their actions.”

I’ll admit, he had me hooked. Who was he talking about? It was obvious he was upset, and with a demeanor like his, I was glad I wasn’t full of unchecked power with zero accountability.

“We put our confidence in their hands, and they will make mistakes. All human beings make mistakes. But what can a man like me do when he is wronged by these people, this group, this cabal of untouchable ‘professionals?’ If you think there’s a board I could report them to, you’d be wrong. If you think my government cares about the common man over this powerful lobbying interest, you’d be mistaken. If you think the courts see what they took away from me as any more than a possession, with a price tag on its head that doesn’t go one one thousandth of the way of valuing the intangible things I lost, you’d be in error.”

I was on the edge of my seat. Who were these fat cat power brokers, and what the hell did they do to whatever it was that he lost? For nearly fifteen minutes Roger grew angrier and angrier, and continued to rage against the machine in completely vague terms, never once cluing the viewer in to what his issue really was.

Until…

“What I lost meant more to me than anything in this entire world. I’m just a man, who put his faith and confidence in a system that has stolen my heart and my life away from me, and laughs in my face when I try to bring their problems to light.” Roger was obviously starting to choke up a little. “I have something I’d like to read now.”

That’s when it all made sense. Or, rather, made sense only in the most absurd way possible. The image onscreen changed from the angry gruff ex-Marine to that of a slideshow of pictures of a fluffy cat. And Roger, choking back the tears, was reading a poem while these pictures flashed by.

Yes, it rhymed, and yes, it was as much about veterinary malpractice as it was a glowing love ode to his beloved cat. He was nearly bawling by the end of his poem.

It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen, with a man willing to shed real tears on camera on behalf of this cat. I had to get this on tape.

I called the cable company that morning, and was transferred to the person in charge of the community access portion of the company. I asked her if I could get a copy of the show, and she let me know that she couldn’t provide one herself, as the cable company didn’t have the production rights, but she could put me in contact with the guy responsible.

Without thinking, I gave her my name and number.

A few days later, I came home to a message blinking on my machine. “This is Roger Johnson (name changed to protect the nutball), I got your name from the lady at the cable company. I’m glad you watched my show, and I’d like to talk to you. Give me a call at…”

Uh oh.

All I wanted was a copy of this guy crying over his kitty cat, and all of a sudden he’s thinking he’s found a kindred spirit. Another two days passed, and another message popped up. “Hi there! Roger again, you’re probably out of town or just really busy, ha ha… Just wanted to see if I could talk to you for a little bit, and I can give you my address so you can get that copy of my cable show. We’ll see ya!”

It was disturbing me how casual he was on the phone. I was sure that when he found out I was laughing at him, not crying with him, that I was in for a Korean War style ass kicking.

It wasn’t until I got home that next day from work and found another message that I figured out that I had to call him back at some point. With trepidation I picked up the phone and dialed the number he had left.

A familiar voice answered, “Hello?”

“Is this Roger? This is BG. The lady at the cable company gave you my number.”

“BG! It’s my pleasure to talk to you. I’m really glad you were interested in what I had to say.” Captivated is more like it. Engrossed in an embarrassing public spectacle is probably what was most accurate.

“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry about Fluffy,” or whatever his cat’s name was – I forget, “I was interested in seeing if I could get a copy of your show on videotape…” I didn’t get any more words out of my mouth before an excited old man jumped right into his big pile of assumptions.

“I’m guessing you had a pet too, and that there was an issue with a vet, am I right?”

Where do you go from here? Well, certainly the truth has no business in this conversation at all.

“Yeah, I, uh, had a dog growing up,” so far so good, “and we brought him in to get fixed and the vet screwed things up and the dog died of complications.” It was a true story, although it happened to someone I know, not my family.

“Oh no,” Roger sympathized, “what kind of dog was he?”

“Great Dane. We called him Buddy.”

“What did you do? Or were you too young?”

“It was my dad,” I couldn’t just quit here, right? “the MSU Vet School did the surgery and screwed it up. He sued them, and the judge awarded us half of what it cost us to buy the dog in the first place, and told us we didn’t have to pay for the surgery – which we didn’t have to anyway.” I threw this last part on the end for good measure, thanks to my finance background, “It was as if the courts depreciated my dog.” I was pretty happy with that last line. Thought that might get the blood pumping on his end a little bit.

“That’s horrible, those veterinarians think they can get away with anything. There’s no checks and balances, there’s no board to report them to, if these guys screw up, it’s just another dead dog to them. They don’t care.” I know a vet or two, and I certainly didn’t believe that last assertion.

“Well, I’d like to show your tape to my dad. Can you mail me a copy?”

He agreed, so long as I sent him $3 for a video tape and a prepaid mailer in return. Thankfully, he left me alone after that. Still, I got quite a bit of enjoyment out of that videotape over the next year or so, although no one ever found a sobbing Roger quite as funny as I did.