It's Called A Literary Technique, FRIG.

I only initially joined the high school debate team at the insistence of Alex, who would always take time out of my sardonic monologues to bring attention to what he called my ability to connect seemingly unrelated dilemmas, like I was able to suggest the facades a subject might seem to be hiding behind. I heard it simply as praise of being good at something both generally useful and potentially characteristic of myself, and I was interested simply on the basis of exposure. As I was gently introduced to the structure of the competitive aspects of the extra-curricular activity I observed the social flow within the team itself and soon came to recognize that despite the title of coach and the paychecks being received by our reluctant droopy-eyed overseer Mr. Clifford, the course was actually organized and resultantly controlled by the more veteran members of the team, and through his disinterest our alleged leader unwittingly allowed the indoctrination of the team's novice members to the usually criminal standards of behavior held by those doing his job.
There was an office in the back corner of the classroom that, in the confusion of constantly shuffling out teachers beaten by this sort of thing and recruiting newly graduated experience-seekers to fill their places, had become a supply and storage closet stacked full with old debators' records and a collection of old children's tales used as practice tools for a particular speech event called Retold Story. My varsity mentor sometimes utilized this bunker and its supplies to create, via typewriter, memos addressed to the class concerning book club meetings and the banning of popcorn due to the invading nature of its scent and the detrimental effects being recorded throughout all of the company's accounting divisions. These inventions were then copied thirty times, handed out to all students at the beginning of class, and incorporated into the speeches given opening the class session, as though to reassure those present of another 53 minutes of free time.
About a block from the school was a gas station quaintly emblazoned in red block letters with Kwik Stop, behind which we would go on these common free days to smoke pot and cigarettes and it was there that the majority of my actual tutoring took place. It became a favorite method when composing a debate case negating the National Forensic League's chosen resolution to seek out a key term such as Justice and expose its frailty through the necessity for a subjective interpretation in order to legitimize the stated resolution. Probably this seemed so appealing because it allowed us to essentially avoid debating the actual issues and instead point out the loopholes in a statement's phrasing; we didn't have to strain our consciences to support an argument. This in tandem with Clifford's laissez-faire approach eventually led to apathy for the greater part of the team, and we began intentionally disrupting the imposed order of the organized tournaments to find fulfillment. We were inspired by the rules regulating appearance for students attending Brigham Young University to equip false mustaches before entering student congress and at a critical speaking point throw them dramatically to the floor as if fed up with their juvenility, though we were always careful to collect them again before returning to our seats. We also took it upon ourselves to apprehend and claim in the name of the team several orphaned garbage cans, furniture, and any sort of interesting sign or item we could weave into our post-tournament recap speech to increase the chances of another successful filibuster.
At the end of the debate season there were fewer members of our team who maintained an emotional relationship with their competitive success. Mr. Clifford taught for a second year, then digressed to teaching only Speech and Drama, and finally followed those before him out the door. Which isn't to say he wasn't fun and fairly useful to have around, just that he had unfortunately fallen into what seemed a comfortable stereotype.

I wrote this for school; probably because I don't post here anymore, I will relegate this space for such items as this. So yeah, some of it's not in the right order or whatever, I don't give a shit, and it was just our first sketch for the class. I also wrote it in the wee hours, if you will, and was less worried about consistency with chronological facts than quality and word count. Ha-haaa!