Reality show judges sit imperiously on high, issuing criticism and encouragement and soul-crushing snark from their bronzer-and-buff-and-Botox faces, but rarely have to face the heat themselves. Judge not lest ye be judged, the Bible says, but to that reality television says: Feh!

These professional judges' panels are preordained celebrity collections of wit, wisdom and, at times, simpering idiocy that rule so much of reality TV. These panels sometimes are chock-full of charisma and sometime are heavy on shtick, but their interpersonal dynamics are a huge part of what keeps the viewers tuning in.

So as Fox's "American Idol" and ABC's "Dancing With the Stars" crowned their season champions last week, and Bravo's "Top Chef" marches toward its final Quickfire Challenge, the time is right to put the judges on the hot seat and determine how they themselves stack up. Our criteria for this little competition include entertainment value, professional credibility, personality, respect and that certain intangible that is group chemistry.

Let's start with "Dancing With the Stars," which Tuesday night crowned its newest champion, Kristi Yamaguchi. If you think they've got karmic chemistry, perhaps it's all about their pregame ritual.

Before each Monday-night taping, the three judges -- Len Goodman, Bruno Tonioli and Carrie Ann Inaba -- all hold hands and express their love for each other.

"I love you," Bruno tells Len. "I love you," Len tells Carrie Ann. (Yes, seriously, this happens. Carrie Ann swears it does.)

"We started doing [the hand-holding] in the second season," Inaba says by phone from Los Angeles. "That way we're free during the judging. You don't feel like anybody's going to get ganged up."

Then the live show starts and Tonioli screams his way over Goodman. Or Inaba looks at Tonioli as if he's lost his mind when he raves about the total hotness of the dancer and loses track, in her opinion, of the dance itself. Or Goodman puts on his metaphoric "crotchety pants" and dismisses the critiques of the other two because some dancer sneaked some of that unnecessary hip-hop junk into a ballroom number.

Then the next day, the three show up at the CBS studio lot for the results show and get together in their makeshift grotto (Goodman brought the water fountain, Tonioli the plants, Inaba the lawn chairs and a little rug) and sunbathe.

"You have to have a real passion for it, which we all three have," Inaba says. "We all try to give us the space to speak our own judgments. That's why there are a lot of arguments, but we all respect each other."

There's never any cause to disrespect the credibility of these judges, either -- all three can glide their way around a ballroom floor, and their verbal repartee is typically very nimble, too.

Our score: 9.

At the ratings monster that is "American Idol," disrespect is both a trademark and a delicious expectation. "Dancing's" Len has nothing on the archetypal snarky-wit Brit that is Simon Cowell.

Lo these many seasons in, however, Cowell is not as mean as he used to be -- not like back in the day when he described one singer as looking like a "bush baby."

Depending on your taste, Paula Abdul is either unwatchable or you absolutely can't take your eyes off her. She simpers and flirts and waxes on about contestants' "souls" and "spirits" and "being authentic to who they really are."

She might not be Carrie Ann, but she has her own "X" factor that is the element of Imminent Train Wreck Meltdown. She may or may not be functional on any given day -- and she might not even know quite what day it is.

And then there's Randy "Pitchy, dawg" Jackson, who is just ... there. He's a laid-back, wannabe hip-hopster. Put it all together and it works.

Host Ryan Seacrest plays traffic cop, but Cowell still rules this roost, which is why "Idol" maintains its reputation as being wonderfully snide. Nothing seems out of bounds -- there's the singing, yes, but also comments on weight, hair and wardrobe selections.

"If you don't want to hear that, don't show up," is the matter-of-fact answer Cowell gave to reporters who questioned his capacity for cruelty at one of the show's press tour appearances.

But of course, they keep showing up -- "Idol" wannabes and the adoring audience.

Our score: 7 (8.5 when Paula is not coherent.)

Bravo has built its own blueprint for a compelling judges' panel, despite the inherent handicaps. Because the show doesn't air live and there's no audience input (how can you vote on food you can't taste?), its shows such as "Top Chef" generate their drama and dysfunction and snarkiness via the interaction of the contestants -- forcing a "Big Brother" closeness that turns up the burner on the dynamics.

The cable network fine-tuned the approach with "Project Runway," casting supermodel Heidi Klum as the world-class face, and body, of the panel and surrounding her with judges that come with bolts of cred: designer Michael Kors and fashion editor Nina Garcia (as well as lovable co-host Tim Gunn).

"Top Chef," which airs Wednesday nights and is in midseason, followed the same mold, eventually putting world-class body/face Padma Lakshmi in the dual role of host-judge. Lakshmi's perspective is that of passionate diner, says fellow judge Gail Simmons. But the person who best knows his way around the kitchen: much-honored chef Tom Colicchio, who plays the role of head judge.

"He doesn't carry the most weight," Simmons says of Colicchio. "It's a democracy. It's more that he comes from a place where he's directing the conversation."

Simmons and Ted Allen -- who take turns filling the third main slot, though occasionally both are on -- come to the show with the viewpoint of critics/professional diners. The show also uses a weekly "guest judge," who is generally another well-known chef. Colicchio, though, is really the only one who ever gets really sharp with the contestants (though Lakshmi does have her critical moments).

"We don't discuss our opinion at all until we're on camera," Colicchio says. "Because we're not actors, it's hard to re-create."

The sad part is that the judges often argue for a couple of hours with the cameras rolling, but viewers at home are privy to only a scant few minutes. Wouldn't it be delicious to hear everything they carp about while the chefs are out of the room?

Our score: 7.

And so our champion is "Dancing," which boasts the most balanced judges' table. Sure, Len's the ballroom king, but since "Dancing" uses a points system, each judge's opinion carries equal weight. And no one seems to dominate the discussion -- although Bruno tries, sometimes.

"The one thing that does separate us from the other judges is that we do have to stand by a number," Inaba says. "We can't say anything just to say it because we have to back it up. ... Other judges can say anything they want for shock value."