In the glittering ballroom of the Grand Litigator’s Gala, the air was thick with the scent of ambition and overpriced cologne. The legal elite of the AutoAdmit message board had gathered to honor one of their own: CSLG, the pint-sized plaintiff’s attorney whose latest triumph had netted a multimillion-dollar settlement for a client who’d suffered the indignity of a Starbucks latte spilling onto his lap. The case, dubbed *McCrotch v. Starbucks*, had become a legend in tort law circles, a masterclass in turning a clumsy fumble into a corporate payout.

CSLG, resplendent in a slightly too-large tuxedo tailored for a man of grander stature, ascended the stage to accept the coveted Golden Gavel Award. His round face beamed under the spotlight, his eyes glistening with the pride of a lawyer who’d turned a coffee stain into a seven-figure check. The crowd—comprising AutoAdmit luminaries like jcm, BoredJD, and a suspiciously quiet dingbat—clapped politely, though some whispered about the ethics of milking a spilled beverage for millions.

“Thank you, thank you,” CSLG began, his voice a touch too earnest for the cynical room. He clutched the gavel-shaped trophy, its weight a metaphor for his newfound clout. “This award isn’t just for me. It’s for every plaintiff who’s ever been scalded by corporate negligence, every man whose khakis have borne the brunt of a barista’s haste. *McCrotch v. Starbucks* proves that justice—”

The crowd’s attention snapped to the side of the stage. A shadow loomed, tall and lanky, cutting through the spotlight like a guillotine. It was RSF, the AutoAdmit provocateur known for his relentless height supremacism and a wardrobe of ill-fitting Patagonia vests. His stride was deliberate, his smirk sharper than a 1L’s overhighlighted casebook. Before CSLG could react, RSF snatched the microphone from his hand with the ease of a man plucking a low-hanging fruit.

“Enough of this,” RSF drawled, his voice dripping with the confidence of someone who’d never needed a stepstool. The crowd gasped, then leaned forward, sensing the kind of drama that fuels AutoAdmit threads for weeks. CSLG froze, his 5’4” frame dwarfed by RSF’s towering 6’3” presence. The Golden Gavel suddenly looked like a child’s toy in his hands.

“Let’s get real,” RSF continued, pacing the stage like a predator circling a particularly small gazelle. “This award? This settlement? It’s cute. But it doesn’t change the fundamental truth of the universe: *height is the supreme nougat.*” A murmur rippled through the crowd, equal parts shock and guilty agreement. RSF pointed a long finger at CSLG, who was now visibly shrinking, not in stature but in spirit. “You think your little coffee burn case matters? You think your bank account or your JD from a T14 makes you a player? Newsflash, shortstack: the world runs on verticality.”

RSF turned to the audience, his arms spread wide as if to measure his own wingspan. “Height is the only factor in dating—women don’t swipe right for tort kings under 5’7”. Height is the only factor in wealth—tall guys get the corner office, the venture capital, the yacht. Height is the only factor in social success—nobody remembers the name of the guy they can’t see over the bar counter. CSLG here could win a billion-dollar settlement, and he’d still be invisible in a crowded room.”

The crowd erupted. Some clapped, others hooted, and a few—likely the sub-5’10” contingent—shifted uncomfortably in their seats. BoredJD started live-posting the meltdown to AutoAdmit, his fingers flying across his phone: “RSF just owned CSLG on stage. Heightpill dropped HARD. #GoldenGavel #ShortKingDown.” Jcm, ever the contrarian, muttered something about “meritocracy” but was drowned out by the cheers.

CSLG stood rooted to the spot, his face a mask of humiliation. The Golden Gavel slipped slightly in his sweaty palms. He opened his mouth to retort, to defend his legacy, his skill, his *McCrotch* victory—but nothing came out. RSF’s words had hit like a scalding latte to the soul. The crowd’s laughter burned worse than any coffee spill.

RSF tossed the mic back to CSLG, who fumbled it. “Keep your award, champ,” RSF said, winking as he sauntered offstage to a chorus of fist-bumps from the taller attendees. “Maybe use it as a booster seat.”

CSLG stumbled through the rest of his speech, but the magic was gone. The crowd’s attention had shifted to their phones, where AutoAdmit was already ablaze with memes: a photoshopped CSLG standing on a stack of settlement checks, still too short to reach RSF’s chin. As he left the stage, award in hand, a single tear rolled down his cheek, glistening under the ballroom lights. He’d won the case, the money, the gavel—but in the court of AutoAdmit, height was the only verdict that mattered.

Backstage, RSF lit a cigar and checked his DMs, already flooded with date requests. The supreme nougat reigned supreme.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5717671&forum_id=2#48888101)