I St George, pledge to see with all my faculties of morality, to be incorruptible as a symbol of good lovin' in the face of intense chafing, to atone any historical conduct of breaking rule 1, to be a person rightfully known as one to trust when one needs a good night out and genital care guidance, to defend with probity all native communities from Govindia's and wild Tim's on condition said communities do not will otherwise, and haven't broken Rule 1.

I heed a calling of occasional duty, for which I wear my quiver, crotchless chaps and bright green thong of truth and justice. But I acknowledge that there will come a time when the furnaces for rightfulness burn no longer in my gut (this would also cure my heartburn), for there comes a time in every great defender’s life when one needs to be stoked with the reminders of what audacious calling motivated them to carry the weight of such an iron quiver, which would be a bitch to carry btw, and not at all a practical way to carry arrows. Eventually every trusted friendship will be lost, every avenue for amusement, exhausted, every setback and depression, augmented, every window of happiness I observe, smashed, bah been through this already. Twice. I survive, bitches – and yet I will hobble away from these tribulations, moral confusions and disillusionment on the crutches of my duty, or copious amounts of alcohol, because I will know then that the virtuous need duty as much as the duties of the world need the virtuous to serve them or something like that.

I solemnly pledge to commit myself to the United Defenders League as a civil (hahahaahahahahahaahaha you want me to be civil?) servant of the good.