Who Would Win in a Fight between Josh Sundquist and I?

Josh Sundquist is the other Ewing’s sarcoma-surviving, 27/28-year-old, DC-based author and motivational speaker. Josh wrote the national bestseller, Just Don’t Fall, which released less than a year before my book. He delivers speeches to thousands of people for currency other than an Amazon gift card (my most lucrative speaking receipt to date). Josh’s leg was amputated as a boy, and he later skied in the Turin, Italy, Paralympic Games. Josh is more than 100 times more popular than I am using Facebook Likes as a measurement. Even his girlfriend has more than three times my number of Twitter followers.

I contacted Josh’s assistant regarding a social media collaboration. She did not respond. I also tried meeting up with him to discuss James Ewing, Patrick Ewing, and the pros/cons of our respective injuries. I thought our similarities would lead to a unique and rewarding friendship. He did not respond. I had reached my ignorance-threshold from online dating (my May message response rate was 9%) combined with my friend, SZB (who is nonresponsive for 103% of my communication). Josh pushed me over the edge and now we must fight.

Sundquist is taller and heavier. And despite my notable power-to-weight ratio, he won the Body-for-Life contest, an annual physique transformation competition. I’ll even refrain from labeling him a cheater for using professional trainers.

Sundquist is a much better speaker, utilizing facial muscles and vocal variety I’m incapable of. But my book is much better than his, I promise, despite the sales differential that is likely many multiples of our Facebook Likes gap. Don’t discount persuasive speaking and writing skills during hand-to-hand combat.

Sundquist has only one leg, which you may consider a disadvantage. However, my hip is vulnerable and can sustain further injury, so I will baby it as he aggressively drop-kicks me without anything to lose.

Sundquist uses crutches. Crutches are dangerous.

I appeal for crutches to be considered a weapon. My appeal wins. Even TSA proceeds to confiscate crutches, along with canes and those prickly hair brushes. This ruling negates his two previously mentioned advantages, and then some.

Sundquist’s girlfriend cries for him to forfeit before getting hurt. I don’t have a crying girlfriend, though I do have my desert ladies who first seduce then knock unconscious the referee, and then throw carabineers and chalk balls at Sundquist.

Sundquist’s cushy Clarendon residence has softened him, whereas my less-affluent south Arlington apartment—formerly containing roaches and mice—has hardened me.

Without a conscious referee (thank you, desert ladies) I reach into my rocket shoe’s secret compartment and grab the pepper spray.

Our fight takes place after my weekly Cheat Lunch, leaving me stuffed and nearly unable to move. Now blind and on one leg, Sundquist still manages to clobber my abdomen. This irritates my gallbladder, which acutely erupts through at least one orifice. The bile, which feels hotter than the ghost chili pepper, lands on Sundquist’s face, and my desert ladies have to remove his girlfriend from the premises to stifle her screaming.

Sundquist takes breaks to vlog for his YouTube Channel, which is in jeopardy of losing followers thanks to my scalding gallbladder acid deforming his face. While he breaks, I just stand in the ring, still unable to move due to food overdose and an exploded organ.

I need medical care fast, so this must end now. My desert ladies confiscate Sundquist’s hairspray from his girlfriend’s handbag and toss it to me. “If you move, it dies,” I tell Sundquist. He gets down on his knee and begs me to liberate his cherished cosmetic. “All I ever wanted was your friendship,” I say…”and this victory,” I add. “Both are yours,” Sundquist says. I engage Sundquist with the cross-face chicken wing followed by the sharpshooter, and then the figure-four leglock.

Humorous blog about cancer treatment and survival