Judge Not, Lest. . .

The Source

. . . you know what the heck you’re doing. I must look like a judge because I have no other credentials other than a gray beard and bald head. Maybe people think that makes me wise, but more often than not I have no idea what I’m doing. It seems as if I’ve been asked to judge nearly everything that moves, crawls or cries and so far no one has asked for my qualifications. In fact, I have no idea how I get these jobs. . . like chili tasting. A local church had a once-upon-a-time chili cook-off to raise money for something or other and they asked two people who knew what they were doing and me to act as judges for the evening of tasting. Although I’ve spent a lifetime eating my palate is far from refined. To me a gourmet dinner means that the Schwan’s man stopped at my house that morning. My taste buds run the gamut from A to B. But for whatever reason they asked me to taste about twenty different chili recipes that to my mind tasted all about the same. Some had beef that tasted like turkey and some featured turkey tasting much life beef. Bobbing about in a pool of tomato sauce, who could tell? Then I got to the bowl marked “Sudden Siesta.” The other soups had enticing names like “Cook’s Desire,” and “Sweet South of the Border,” so the Sudden Siesta had me puzzled. I dipped my spoon into the gloop, tasted, swallowed, then did my imitation of the Fukushima meltdown that nearly destroyed Japan in 2011. I thought it was only in the movies when someone’s eyes lit up and only in cartoons did smoke actually come out of a characters ears, but I’m sure I did both as I blindly felt around for something to drink. The other two judges deemed the caustic brew “interesting,” and “exciting.” As a chili judge I was a complete burnout. Which brings to mind the hot August afternoon when someone asked me to travel across the state to judge a marching band competition. The little town was having a parade and awarding trophies to the best high school marching bands, and three judges sat on a truck bed, clipboards in hand, awaiting the first band to come stomping down the street. The other two judges knew what they were doing and we were sitting so close together that they could easily see my clipboard where I’d been drawing Disney characters. So, to disguise my stupidity I jumped down into the street and pretended to peer closely at the bands as they passed by. The other two judges, both unaware that I was an idiot in this category, followed my cue and jumped into the street with me. They assumed I was an expert and that they’d been judging wrong all these years. Talent contests are the toughest to judge because you’re asked to compare 30-year-old country singers to 7-year-old tap dancers then put them up against a quartet of singing sophomore girls who are competing against a kid doing a lip sync of Michael Jackson. Not only is the job impossible but most often they place the judges at a table in full view (and easy shooting distance) of the contestant’s parents, grandmother, boyfriend and minister. I had sworn off judging all talent contests since I seemed to know half the contestants in our area, but a lady from Sedalia, Missouri, convinced me to come over and judge their town fest since I wouldn’t know anyone. As soon as I stepped out of the car I heard “Hi Ken!” as a fraternity brother of mine from Jacksonville was unpacking his daughter’s tap shoes. Foiled again. But by far my hairiest judging stint came at the nationals of the Jr. Miss Pageant in Kansas City. Eighty or so little girls wearing outfits that cost more than my car and mothers who’d give you look much like the people on the “Wanted” fliers in the post office gathered at a convention center for two days of interviews and costume judging. Two days of stimulating questions like, “And what’s your favorite color?” and “Who’s the best Disney Princess?” Ho-hum. It took a lot of coffee to get through it. But the part of the day that really bothered me was the swimsuit competition. Okay, I’m old-fashioned, but when the little ladies came out to show off their pre-pubescent figures I stared at my feet. It’s just wrong, Mama. Don’t do this to your little girl. The contest officials instructed us to be in our cars and headed home before the results were announced. They knew that conceal and carry was legal in Kansas and that these mamas might be packin’ heat. . .or at least hot chili. I’ve decided from now on to confine my judging to the menu at Norma’s Café where all the choices are good and the waitresses outfits have nothing to do with it.