An Olympian? (Not!) Here’s What I Am

I haven’t watched one second of the Olympics. An Olympian?! Gosh, I’m gold medal inadequate. But in at least one way, I crave a taste of the Olympic spirit, and (I guess) that makes me an “Ozempian.”

The neo-Olympics, cartoon by Harry Bliss, featured on X @blisscartoon

I’m not actually on Ozempic, but I act as if I am.

I arrive bright and early at the mega-cookie-muffin emporium. I study their impressive display, and my willpower wanes. Then I spot a woman aggressively gobbling a massive chocolate chip. When I take a step closer, I see that she’s pregnant. She’s eating for two. I don’t have the same excuse. I’m out.

A popular donut chain is close by. Their window blares, “Protein!” Wouldn’t “Sugar!” be more appropriate? I leave.

Next, I’m at a snobby, packed-to-the-gills bagel den. As I inhale the aroma of carbohydrates, my willpower dissipates. But then I remind myself about the den’s three-bagel minimum. I don’t want one, much less three, so I follow my gut and GTFO.

There’s no line at a hoity-toity cake and pie shop. Everything looks delicious, and I’m wavering once again. I want one of everything, so I choose nothing and force myself out.

It’s easy to enter a time warp at this next well-known supermarket/amusement park. There’s the pop soundtrack, no clocks, and the aisles aren’t numbered. And the store’s layout is absolutely genius. Patrons must see just about everything. Ultimately, we buy, well, everything. But I buy nothing because I’m a friggin’ Ozempian.

Hawkin’ Wheaties! (graphic courtesy — who else?) General Mills

Next stop is a relic, the local movie house. I’m not here for Marty Supreme, who could’ve been an Olympian and an Ozempian. Does Timothee Chalamet eat? I’m here for a whiff of my kryptonite: the freshly-made popcorn. One kernel is guaranteed to open the floodgates. Fortunately, the theater isn’t open yet.

I’m past the halfway point, and I’m walking it off, even though I have nothing to walk off. Anyway, I attempt to stroll into a recently reopened popular bagel palace, which I’ve never sampled. And I won’t today. There’s a line out the door, fortunately. I’m gone.

Next is an eclectic spot, which specializes in bagels and Chinese food. I can’t stop vacillating between the sesame chicken and a sesame bagel, so I make a beeline for a deli that reminds me of the restaurant in The Bear. It’s the unofficial training table for local college athletes, probably an Olympian or two.

Of course, I’m an Ozempian, not an Olympian. So even though I’m seriously swayed by the succulent chicken cutlet, I force myself to depart and find myself at a pizza joint, which offers “king-sized” slices. No, I’m not worthy, so I excuse myself.

I did it. I made it to the finish line. I am a self-proclaimed, self-titled Ozempian. However, there will be no medal stand, so I will reward myself with a few escalator rides. (Usually, I take the stairs.)

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Jon Hart is the author of Unfortunately, I was available.