Your Judge Hates You

Hi.  I’m your judge, and I hate you.

I am not your menopausal mommy judge.

I am not your terrified teacher judge.

I am, however, a former speechie.  I know what I’m talking about, and I hate you.

I don’t hate you because of your team, your state, your hair, that booger dangling so precariously from your left nostril.  I just hate the very essence of your being.  I’m not sure why, but your filthy little forensicating life force fills me with the deepest loathing imaginable.

So why am I at your tournament, in your round, hunched and glaring at you over my crappy cup of complimentary coffee?  Perhaps it’s the mad cash money  I earn for scrawling angry, smeary, indecipherable codes all over your ballots.  (65 bucks?  A king’s ransom!)  It’s possible that I secretly adore your fancy little suits.  (Ill-fitting polyester: so chic.)

Or maybe I want to see some magic.  (Please put away your wands.  The powers of the Potters will not teach you to properly pop.)  I want you to make me forget where I am.  Mesmerize me with your performance.  Take your ten minutes and make me laugh so hard I (maybe) pee a little; wring tears from my cold, tiny heart.  I’m there because I want to be absolutely blown away by you.  If you can’t do that, I want my time back.

See, I’m secretly on your side.  I actually want you to succeed.  My cell phone is off, I have several backup pens, and I will slap anyone who walks into the room during your performance.  I am paying attention, no matter how awful I think you are.

But mostly I’m there for those 65 sweet buckaroos.  I’m broke, y’all.

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