Some of you may remember me from my previous piece, “The Ass Strike,” in which I documented a power struggle between me and my power hungry asshole. This tasteful piece surely secured my place in literary history alongside the likes of Hemingway, Twain, Shakespeare, and Seuss. So, following my accomplishment, I decided to bow out gracefully while at the top of my game. Yes, give up writing… forever.

Some people, however, didn't agree with my decision, to say the least. Soon after, I received a slew of emails from the editor you all know and love, Court Sullivan, most of them along the lines of: “Hey Johnny, looking forward to your next article, let me know what's up. XOXO Court Sullivan.”

I blew these off.

“Fuck that, I've got bigger and better things to do,” I thought to myself as I sipped eggnog in my stained beater while watching Mythbusters.

Before long though, the emails grew desperate: “Johnny, I need you to write something, the front page is empty without you… I've even gone so far as to let girls submit articles…GIRLS, man. Get back to me soon. Eternally yours, Court.”

I disregarded these emails as well—desperation doesn't impress me. But then they became threatening.

“I tried to be nice, I really did. Email after email…chocolates, did you get those chocolates? [I did… they were delicious.] You made me look like a fucking fool, Johnny, and now it's time for you to look like a fool. See you soon, The C Man.”

These emails did not fall on deaf ears—Court Sullivan had me shook. I notified the authorities, but as far as they knew, he didn't exist.

I became neurotic; I couldn't leave my house; what was Court Sullivan capable of? The only thing that served to curb my anxiety was massive amounts of food. Within a month I was three hundred pounds and scared. Then the phone call:

“Hey John boy, it's Court…”

I almost shit my pants; Court Sullivan sounds exactly like Michael Clark Duncan. I would've never guessed it.

“Oh h-h-hey Court, how you doing?”

“Not bad… a little wet….”

Suddenly I heard maniacal laughter coming from both the phone and the outside of my house. I ran to the window and pulled up the blinds. I was now face to face with Court Sullivan, who was soaked to the bone.

“I'm coming in!” he yelled over the rain and thunder. And before I knew it, Court Sullivan was walking into my house, tracking mud across my living room floor. My mom stood there unsure of what to do.

“Get to bed,” Court ordered.

“Hey, don't talk to my mom like that, man.”

He poked me in the chest. “You shut your fat mouth and sit down. And you, get the fuck to bed like I told you, before I kick you in your cumgutter, you musty old whore.”

My mother and I obeyed. Court sat across from me and put his muddy Birkenstock sandals on my coffee table. I was terrified.

“You're a tough guy to get a hold of Johnny,” he said with a smile on his face.

“Yeah well, ya know, I've been busy, Court–”

He cut me off: “Mr. Sullivan will be fine,” he said sternly.

“Well, Mr. Sullivan–”

He cut me off again: “Busy?!”

He laughed, then picked up my Guitar Hero guitar and began mockingly shredding and banging his head. All of a sudden, with one powerful thrust, he threw it against my wall, smashing it to pieces. I cringed.

“Real busy, Johnny?” Court then got up and began searching my pantry. “Where do you keep the Jew bread?”

“The Jew bread?”

“Yeah, those flat little Jew breads…”

“Oh, matzohs? We don't have any, sorry man.”

Court walked back into the living room drinking pickle juice from the jar.

“Let me drop a little knowledge on you, Johnny… I'm a very powerful man and I always get what I want.”

By this time I was ready to do whatever he wanted. “Anything you want, Court… Mr. Sullivan.”

“Articles Johnny, I want articles, and not any more gay shit about you and your loose faggot asshole. I want risqué articles… anti-Semitic articles. Make fun of the Holocaust, that'd be funny, right?”

“I can't do that … the Holocaust was one of the most horrible points in human history, Mr. Sullivan.”

This did not please Court. He stood above me and grabbed a hold of my Susan B. Anthony-sized nipple through my shirt, and with a twist of his wrist had me on the floor writhing in pain.

“When you see the pain I will put you in, it will make the Holocaust look like a trip to Disney World.”

I succumbed, “Anything you want, Mr. Sullivan.”

“I'm glad we finally meet eye to eye.”

He let me go and made his way to the door. Right before he walked out he turned around.

“Tell your little brother and sister Uncle Court said hi.” And then he disappeared into the night.

Court Sullivan is not an anti-Semite, and he may or may not like matzoh, I don't really know. Personally I do not like matzoh, but that has no bearing on my feelings towards the Jewish community.