I was a boarder at the National School of the Arts in Johannesburg at the tail end of Apartheid. My window in the hostel was on the fifth floor, and around us were skyscrapers of mostly transparent glass. One of my entertainments was in watching a guy in the neighboring skyscraper whose job it was to sweep the floor of the building. I assume he was hired by a company that had offices on only the fourth floor, because I always saw him sweeping the same narrow corridor, with doors to different offices behind him. He had a white guy in a dark blazer who would sometimes come up to check on him, but I figured out from observation, while smoking joints on the windowsill in the early hours of the morning, that this old black man had a full time job in which he swept all the dust into a pile, and then spent the rest of the night gently moving the dust about ten feet an hour for the cameras, thus always in motion, but not actually doing anything at all. He was invisible, and his job was to sweep, and then move about a hundred and fifty feet in the course of an eight hour night shift. When you work for people who are likely to consider your skin a crime, you raise malicious compliance into some sort of saintly act of parody.
If you want to chime in with an example of a herculean act of non-labor, the mark is set at sweeping one corridor in eight hours. At your places please.