Tupac believed that only God could judge us. Well, it’s a good thing he’s dead (Pac, not God), because this past weekend I was judging like Greg Mathis let loose on 26th and California, except I was doing it at a speech tournament in the middle of Corn Country. Here’s how it worked: For 10 bucks a round, I—guided by my lackluster credentials and finite widsom—got to decide which speakers would advance to the next stage of life.
My morning started out with a round of informative speeches. Here, I learned about robot fish, a home-made heroin substitute, and how to use of urine as an alternative energy source. As I ranked these speakers, I thought: Yeeeeah, if Pac were here, I’d judge the thug outta him. Then I thought the same thought in Spanish. But then I backed off because I thought Pac’s ghost might rip my face off, write thugmatic poetry on the back of it, and sell it as previously unreleased material.
While my first round of speeches was familiar territory, the next event (in which speakers recited dramatic stories) was completely new to me. Not having any idea of what criteria to evaluate these speakers on, I did what any good judge would do: I acted like I was listening and oathed to myself that I would name my first newborns “Thurgood” and “Ito.”
Next up was the extemperaneous round. Speakers had to prepare a persuasive speech on a topic given to them only 30 minutes prior. Subjects included politics, politics, and the decline of tourism in Portugal—things that I deeply care nothing about.
Today I shared my recent judging experience, provided some insightful observations based on that experience, and demonstrated my unconditional luv for Tupac. The day was also filled with tons of puns and a 2-star hotel, but a judge-l-man never tells all.