NOTE: This past weekend, I attended the Alabama Scholastic Press Association convention in Tuscaloosa. This week, you will get to read my entry (feel the excitement building already), along with the judge's comments. It appears, for the most part, as I turned it in, save for some of the grammar/spelling errors I couldn't bear to leave as they were, and, of course, the links. Enjoy! - Pat

Okay. I'm a little confused here. Seriously. I'm at a loss for words.

Just to give you an idea, let's imagine that you paid around $80 to attend a convention for school/work/etc. It was sort of required, and you couldn't get out of it even if you wanted to, which you didn't.

Anyway, this convention thingy starts at 9 a.m. and it's a few hours away, which means you have to leave early. Like 5:30 a.m. Ouch. I don't know if you've ever gotten up at 4:10 a.m., but it's not a pleasant experience. No person should ever have to suffer that fate.

So, you stumbled out of bed at 4 in the morning, made your way through the usual morning crap, and made it in by 5:00 sharp, all ready to go.

After some basic administrative crap, the mass of 80 people splits up between two charter buses. Only after the wheels on the bus are going round and round do you realize you've been put on the Porno Bus from the '70s. The seats are small and cramped, the TVs look ripped off, it smells like barf, and the 'elevator music' (the hell? Elevator music on a bus?) is that porno anthem: "BUN CHICA BUH UH!"

Now imagine two hours of this. Suddenly, the Bus of Love pulls onto the shoulder. You consider for a moment all the possibilities: out of gas? Engine failure? No, the driver just has to potty. The hell? We're not paying you to hog the bathroom, dude.

Anyway, another hour and a half on the Bus and you've reached your destination. Yay, you think. The cool $80 convention is gonna rock! You fill out your door prizes, slap on your nametag, and march with your head held high to the on-site competition orientation.

You receive your packet and hastily read through it, only to find no clear directions. "Listen to the keynote speaker. Write an editorial." Okay. Now begins an endless stream of people whose sole function seems to be reading aloud the information about the convention (the stuff they handed you on the way in) and reading it poorly.

Finally, the keynote speaker: Scott Stanis. You scribble down some notes on teens needing sleep and decide that must be what he'll talk about. Instead, he leads you on a wild goose chase through his bio (again!), his job (whatever), Bill Clinton, Justice Moore, and his many opinions and credits.

Nowhere is there a clear theme other than 'this is what I do.' You draw editorial cartoons and give random speeches? Alright. But at least give me something I can go on, something to work with.

You start to question the money you spent and all the things your friends told you. "On-site is fun! You'll love it!" Lies, all of it.

The on-site director could offer no help, having a) not heard his speech and b) a position that necessitates impartiality. Not her fault.

If you've been following me so far, that's what my day has been like. Now I have to write an editorial about - what, exactly?

I guess, in the end, it comes down to this: I'm anti-bad speakers. I am completely against poor, ineffective speakers. I was going to let everything else go, but then you had to whip out the bad speaker.

For the record, I'm also anti-getting up at 4 a.m., anti-porno '70s bus, anti-bus drivers with no bladder control and anti-hazy directions.

But it's the anti-bad speaker thing I'm supposed to be focusing on. I think.

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JUDGE'S COMMENTS
Very creative - could have suffered with some judges, but did not with me. Sarcasm is even more effective when it's [typed] with subtlety.