THE GOSPEL OF THE UNDERACHIEVING JANITOR
Or: Thou Shalt Commit to the Bit, You Judgmental Motherfuckers
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Jerry's Marginalia — An Unsolicited Sermon from the Lawful Neutral Paladin
AND LO, THE PALADIN LOOKED UPON SOCIETY AND DECLARED: “WHO THE FUCK ASKED YOU?”
Today, I discovered a television series called Future Man, released in 2017, featuring a protagonist described as an “underachieving janitor who is called upon to save the world.”
Underachieving.
UNDERACHIEVING?!
Excuse me, you pompous, ladder-climbing, résumé-polishing apostles of perpetual productivity, but who the FUCK decided that being a janitor constitutes a failure?
Does the man have a job?
Yes.
Does he perform a necessary service?
Yes.
Does he collect a paycheck, go home, and enjoy his goddamn video games?
Apparently!
THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM?!
Not everyone wants to be a CEO. Not everyone wants to manage seventeen departments, attend six meetings about meetings, or participate in a mandatory team-building exercise where Brenda from Accounting explains the spiritual significance of quarterly performance metrics.
Some people just want to clock in, do their work, clock out, eat a sandwich, and enjoy their remaining hours without some corporate motivational parasite whispering:
"But have you considered your full potential?"
YES, BRENDA.
MY FULL POTENTIAL INVOLVES NOT LISTENING TO YOU.
AMEN.
I. THE FIRST COMMANDMENT: THOU SHALT NOT CONFUSE AMBITION WITH WORTH
Somewhere along the way, society decided that a person who isn't constantly climbing must be falling.
What a spectacularly stupid fucking philosophy.
A janitor who cleans a building for thirty years has contributed something tangible to society.
Meanwhile, some executive vice president of Strategic Synergy and Advanced Bullshit gets paid six figures to schedule meetings about why the bathroom smells like a decomposing raccoon.
And who eventually fixes that bathroom?
THE FUCKING JANITOR.
But apparently he's the underachiever.
BEHOLD THE MIRACLE OF CORPORATE MATHEMATICS!
Where the person doing the necessary work is considered unsuccessful, and the person inventing meaningless performance indicators gets a commemorative plaque.
THE LORD GIVETH, AND HUMAN RESOURCES TAKETH AWAY.
II. THE SECOND COMMANDMENT: THOU SHALT BE AGGRESSIVELY BORING
The Lawful Neutral Paladin does not require a throne.
He does not demand a corner office.
He does not need a luxury automobile, a golden toilet, or seventeen photographs of himself pretending to contemplate leadership beside a window.
He requires three things:
- Enough money to live.
- Enough peace to enjoy living.
- Enough distance from other people's bullshit to preserve the first two.
This is not failure.
THIS IS STRATEGIC FUCKING CONTENTMENT.
The Paladin does not reject ambition. He rejects the notion that ambition must be dictated by somebody else.
Want to build an empire? Fine.
Want to sweep floors and go home? Also fine.
Want to establish a questionable snack company called Sweaty Nutz™ featuring a raccoon with an increasingly concerning criminal record?
NOW WE'RE TALKING ABOUT A VISION.
But none of those choices makes you inherently superior to the person standing beside you.
YOUR JOB TITLE IS NOT YOUR SOUL, YOU SELF-IMPORTANT CACTUS POLISHER.
III. THE THIRD COMMANDMENT: IF THOU SAYEST SIXTY-NINE, THOU SHALT SPECIFY
Now we arrive at the sacred scripture of Future Man.
Our heroic janitor encounters two warriors from the future.
One announces that they're going back to '69.
A perfectly reasonable individual might ask:
"1969?"
But the Paladin?
THE PALADIN COMMITS.
Shirt comes off.
"HEY, BABY!"
The warriors stare in confusion.
"No, we mean the year 1969."
And thus, brothers and sisters, we witness the greatest theological disappointment since somebody discovered the church potluck had run out of fried chicken.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE YEAR?!
YOU SAID SIXTY-NINE!
I HAVE ALREADY REMOVED MY SHIRT!
I HAVE MENTALLY PREPARED MYSELF FOR AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT ADVENTURE!
And now you're telling me we're traveling backward through time to deal with historical bullshit?!
The Paladin reluctantly puts his shirt back on.
"Well, shit. All this hype for nothing."
Let the record show that the Paladin was perfectly willing to embrace the misunderstanding, provided everyone involved was consenting and enthusiastic.
He was even prepared to let the other gentleman enjoy himself.
But apparently we're SAVING HUMANITY.
AGAIN.
CAN HUMANITY NOT SAVE ITSELF FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES?!
IV. THE FOURTH COMMANDMENT: THOU SHALT COMMIT TO THE BIT
There is a lesson buried beneath this monument to idiocy.
If you're going to do something, commit.
If you're going to make a joke, OWN IT.
If you're going to live an ordinary life, LIVE IT WITHOUT APOLOGY.
And if you're going to be an extraordinary dumbass, at least be an extraordinary dumbass with principles.
The Lawful Neutral Paladin does not require universal approval.
He understands that other people have boundaries, preferences, and the right to tell him to put his goddamn shirt back on.
He respects those boundaries.
But he does not surrender his personality merely because some miserable bastard in a business-casual polo thinks adulthood requires the complete extermination of humor.
BE RESPONSIBLE WITHOUT BECOMING A BORING FUCKING ROBOT.
There is a difference between being mature and being spiritually deceased.
Learn it.
V. THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT: THOU SHALT NOT PAY FOR EVERY FUCKING THING
And then came the final revelation.
Future Man originally streamed on Hulu.
But now?
Finding it through an ordinary subscription has become its own goddamn time-travel adventure.
Apparently, discovering a show eight or nine years after its premiere means you must embark on an archaeological expedition through digital storefronts, licensing agreements, and the ruins of streaming exclusivity.
Every service wants money.
Every corporation wants another subscription.
Every platform wants you to rent access to something you may not even like.
And somehow we're supposed to celebrate this as convenience.
FUCKING CONVENIENT FOR WHOM?!
The Paladin surveys the digital landscape.
He checks his wallet.
He considers his options.
Then, from somewhere in the distance, comes the unmistakable sound of a raccoon wearing a pirate hat.
"ARRRRGH, MATEY!"
No further testimony was entered into evidence.
The court respectfully adjourned.
VI. THE FINAL BENEDICTION: THOU SHALT LIVE THINE OWN DAMN LIFE
So here's the sermon.
You do not have to save the world to justify your existence.
You do not have to become wealthy to deserve respect.
You do not have to transform every hobby into a business, every quiet moment into productivity, or every ordinary day into some inspirational LinkedIn circle jerk.
Sometimes a man wants to work.
Sometimes he wants to rest.
Sometimes he wants to play video games.
Sometimes he wants to discover a ridiculous science-fiction comedy nearly a decade late and laugh at an idiot misunderstanding the number sixty-nine.
And sometimes he wants to remove his shirt, enthusiastically commit to a joke, and then put the fucking thing back on when informed that the adventure is actually about American history.
THAT IS HIS GOD-GIVEN RIGHT TO BE A RIDICULOUS HUMAN BEING.
The world is already full of people trying to tell you what success looks like.
You don't need to become another one.
ACT BROKE.
BE BORING.
LIVE WELL.
COMMIT TO THE BIT.
And above all:
IF YOUR LIFE DOESN'T COST ANYONE ELSE THEIR PEACE, STOP LETTING OTHER PEOPLE CHARGE YOU FOR YOURS.
THE LAWFUL NEUTRAL PALADIN'S SACRED OATH
I shall not measure my worth by another man's ambition.
I shall not confuse employment with identity.
I shall respect consent, honor boundaries, and refuse unnecessary bullshit.
I shall remain consistent in boundaries, extravagant in mockery, and economical in expenditures.
I shall commit to the bit, even when the bit is catastrophically stupid.
And when somebody invites me back to sixty-nine, I shall demand clarification before removing my garments.
IN THE NAME OF THE PAYCHECK, THE PEACEFUL AFTERNOON, AND THE HOLY FUCKING CACTUS...
AMEN, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Jerry the Raccoon extinguishes the ceremonial candles, steals the collection plate, and disappears into a dumpster.
Gerald the Cactus declines to comment.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
- Chief Theologian, Dumpster Division