‘The Good Place’s Jason Did Jacksonville Proud

Florida has long been a running joke on television, and how could it not be? When Big Mouth needed a human cess pool to drown or Atlanta wanted to turn a meme into a racially-charged conspiracy theory, both shows — like many before them — turned to Florida. Because Florida, by the way, doesn’t make sense. Old retirees live next to aspiring DJs, theme park junkies, Scientologists, and opioid addicts, all of who are surprisingly comfortable hanging out with 500-pound prehistoric reptiles. As any Floridian will admit, the place is a bizarre wreck with excellent swamp weather.

At least that was the case until Mike Schur’s The Good Place. Thanks to Jason Mendoza and his love of the Jaguars, Blake Bortles, and all things sand-covered and trashy, Jacksonville has finally been given the recognition it has so long deserved.

I’ve always been jealous of city-specific Florida roasts. Sure Orlando has theme parks, but is it the most populous city? Miami may have room for crazy adventures, but is it the largest city area-wise in the United States? Tallahassee rhymes with Talla-nasty, but does it have a giant orange T-rex in the middle of a parking lot that’s basically considered to be a city-wide monument? No, no they do not. But Jacksonville has all those things; as well as a go-cart track, a Top Golf, and indoor skydiving.

That’s why Manny Jacinto’s ridiculous portrayal of Jason Mendoza will forever go down as one of my all-time favorite TV characters. Not only does Jason embody all the bizarre insanity of my hometown, he also captures its underlying goodness.

It may seem that Jason is a never-ending string of nonsensical stories, but even at his craziest they’re nuggets of truth about the town I love. There may not be a Lynyrd Skynyrd High School entirely made of land-trapped tug boats, but the rock band is originally from Jacksonville, something natives will never let you forget (take that, “Sweet Home Alabama!”). Whipping empty spray cans into flamingos and crashing jet skis into manatees may sound insane, but those were two activities that could have plausibly happened during my childhood. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve fed manatees fresh water from my parents’ dock. Jason’s fearlessness when confronted with the worst threats imaginable perfectly mirrors the stubbornness of any Jags fan right before a hurricane. Trust me, they won’t leave, no matter how many times you tell them that they will die.

And you would be hard-pressed to find a city as in love with a team they know is trash than Jacksonville’s relationship with the Jags. One of my closest friends, a man who is reasonable and level-headed in every other aspect of his life, even wrote a book about his love for this breathing atrocity of a football team.

Even Jason’s signature catchphrase, which involves screaming “Bortles!” before lighting a molotov cocktail, contains some regional truth. I have never held a molotov in my life, but I may or may not have spent many afternoons browsing firework stands in St. Augustine with the express purpose of later blowing them up on the beach. And though Gardner Minshew has replaced Blake Bortles as Jacksonville’s golden boy, thanks to Bortles’ traitorous transition to the Los Angeles Rams, that doesn’t diminish Freakville’s love of screaming. It’s not uncommon to hear excited Floridians “Duuuuuuval.” That, my friends, is a reference to Jacksonville’s Duval County.

But underneath Jason’s sinking house and dreams of a Jags Super Bowl victory, what made Jason memorable wasn’t his 60-person dance crew. It was his heart. As much as Jason was an agent of chaos and molotovs, he was also unquestionably loyal and refreshingly judgment-free. He gave his friends a supportive bubble of love when they were at their lowest. When no one else could understand them, Jason, with his weird parables about black market gator sellers, let them know they were never alone. That’s what also rang true about my hometown. Jacksonville may have given me a lifelong love of opossums and a few scars from wake-boarding, but it also gave me some of the greatest people I’ve ever known.

Thanks to Jason, my weird, delightful mess of a hometown has finally been seen. And if that Florida trash-bag has the chance to make it into the Good Place, there’s hope for us yet. Thank you, Jason Mendoza. This one goes out to you and Donkey Doug.

Where to stream The Good Place