I posted yesterday https://twitter.com/DonArturito/status/1782725493302706516 and that was asking for trouble.
(Also StamCafé, with free cubes of cheddar, chorizo & white wine)
Wierd Duk, of all people, who I put in the spotlight at GS last Saturday, responded https://twitter.com/wierdduk/status/1782726824629318001: Congratulations, that Ozempic works well!
Of course, Mr. Duk cannot know that I have been losing weight really hard since the end of February, in a completely natural way and without nasty drugs that have ruined almost my entire life. Ozempic is a life-threatening dope that will give you a Chet Baker mouth and cancer in no time.
This week the Medical Science editorial team of the unsuspecting Daily Mail came up with a very alarming article about emaciated Hollywood stars and I was shocked.
I first heard of this flakka for fatties through Boris Johnson. He wrote about Novo Nordisk’s diabetes drug in his first column for The Daily Mail on June 16 last year.
Bojo has been keeping Britain informed about his waste issues without any shame since 2020. In his column/advertorial, Johnson calls Ozempic the miracle cure he hoped would stop his nighttime gluttony: “inject a small dose of liquid into your stomach once a week, and voilà – no more raiding the fridge at night for cheddar and chorizo, washed down with half a bottle of wine.”
Bojo the ex-glutton
Johnson: “After 40 years of moral failure, 40 years of weakness in the face of temptation — or akrasia — I was going to acquire a new and invincible chemical willpower. I was going to become an ex-glutton, a person of moderation and grace and restraint, and like my Cabinet colleagues I was going to start to resemble a chiselled whippet.
He wrote out the prescription, I zoomed to the chemist’s; and though I was frankly a bit taken back by the cost, what the hell, I said to myself, think of the benefits to health. So for weeks I jabbed my stomach, and for weeks it worked. Effortlessly, I pushed aside the puddings and the second helpings. Wasn’t it amazing, I said to myself, how little food you really need. I must have been losing four or five pounds a week — maybe more — when all at once it started to go wrong. For now I am back to exercise and willpower, but I look at my colleagues — leaner but not hungrier — and I hope that if science can do it for them, maybe one day it can help me, and everyone else.”
Zombie dope
Entrepreneur Mick de Vlieger also warned about zombie dope last July:
Mick de Vlieger, probably through his wife Dyantha Brooks (presenter of Shownieuws), understood that Ozempic is really a rage among celebrities. These types of remedies are available under several names, including Saxenda, Wegovy and ‘horse riding’. Mick tweets: “Ozempic is the most bizarre hype. All preaching for obesity and body positivity, but at the same time abuse diabetes medication, resulting in shortages. What a generation. And yes, I am talking about half-known Netherlands.” This came over from America, says Mick. “Hollywood stars praise it there.” Mick, a muscleman himself, states that you don’t need these types of medicines at all for a healthy body. “Just don’t eat. Easy.”
No polonaise on my body
I liked Mr.’s comment. Quite hurtful. Do I look so pale that I would start taking Ozempic in my old age? I am against chemical drugs anyway. The only and last time I took ecstasy was in 1985. I lived at the time on Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal in Mokum and had a view of the Diana erotic cinema and the adjacent Why Not club. If you really want to read a dirty heaumeau story about Diana, just click here. Around the corner in Spuistraat was an obscure night bar, the Limelight, run by Moshe from Tel Aviv. At one point he gave it to me without asking. By the way, I already had a nice drug career on my resume. It is not without reason that it is written in 1 Thessalonians 5 verse 21: Try all things; preserve the good. After long wanderings, I gradually decided that a diet of crack and heroin suited me best. At that time, around 1984/1985, I applied as a pollster to drug professor August de Loor. He was then affiliated with the University of Amsterdam and sat in a sad room at the dope faculty somewhere on the islands behind Central Station. I had to – for a nice fee – visit users (you weren’t allowed to say ‘dirty dirty junkies’, that was pejorative) and ask three hundred questions. The user also received compensation for the conversation, otherwise he would not participate. After what I thought was a successful job interview, Professor De Loor muttered that he didn’t think it was a good idea for me to interview users, all because of my supposed sensitivity to drugs.
Anyway, the effect of Moshe’s free ecstasy pill in the Limelight was funny. I first cycled to Artis and spent hours chatting in the monkey cage and kissing a mandrill. Then I went to a moldy cellar around the corner from the Koepelkerk, where the Sonesta was still located with the notorious high society fitness club Splash, where I did aerobics together with Huub Stapel and Adele Bloemendaal. In that basement dance evenings took place, attended mainly by cousins, and the inevitable but fortunately sporadic curmudgeon of the Claudius Breij type. I’m not a dancing type, but I danced around in boxer shorts until 9 o’clock in the morning and then went to the afterparty at the Argos leather club in the Warmoesstraat. In short: Ecstasy is a fun party drug, but it is also childish stuff compared to sos, krek and meth.
So no chemical dope for me, and certainly no Ozempic, which also gives you all kinds of nasty cancers. I have a personal trainer twice a week, surprisingly called Rui, I visit a dietician at the gym twice a month who measures my BMI, and every day I walk for an hour on the beach and through the salt mines in front of my door. And I swim in the Atlantic Ocean for half an hour every day. I no longer eat cookies and chocolate, and certainly no UPFs (ultra processed foods) and soft drinks. I limit alcohol to 1 binge per week. And that is quite difficult in this paradise for alcoholics.
Fortunately, we do not have the snack bar phenomenon in the Algarve. You can get a nice mouthful here, but you have to go to Jin Shan on the boulevard of Olhão. Usually it concerns hangover eating. Women call it comfort food, but it immediately sounds so victimized. If I have a resaca of death, I got a tower with buckets of food from the filthiest Chinese in the Algarve, but the owner is very nice and has a DD cup and you don’t often see that among her people. Jin Shan, by the way, means golden mountain. Make that Golden Mountain of Congealed Deep-Frying Fat.
Well, I won’t reveal any more secrets about my spectacular war against obesity. But the struggle pays off. Veni vidi vici.
