In the gilded halls of the Élysée Palace,

The air was thick with the scent of Chanel No. 5 and existential dread.

The Minister of National Aesthetics paced the parquet floor,

His brow furrowed in a way that was both tragic and incredibly photogenic.

He held a tablet displaying a spreadsheet from the World Health Organization,

And the data was more horrifying than a well-done steak.

“Jean-Pierre,” the Minister whispered, his voice trembling like a reed.

“The Americans. They are… vanishing.”

For decades, the geopolitical balance of power had been simple.

America had the aircraft carriers, the Hollywood blockbusters, and the moon landings.

But France had the Waistline.

The French ego was built upon a foundation of butter-heavy sauces

Consumed by people who somehow remained as thin as a Gauloises cigarette.

To be French was to gaze across the Atlantic and sigh with a delicate,

Yet devastating, superiority at the land of the Triple Bacon Cheeseburger.

But the Great Thinning had begun.

From the suburbs of Ohio to the strip malls of Florida,

A quiet revolution was being dispensed in pre-filled pens.

Ozempic, Wegovy, and Mounjaro were flowing like cheap wine at a wedding.

The “Ugly Americans”—once the reliable punchline of every Parisian dinner party—

Were suddenly exhibiting jawlines.

They were fitting into airplane seats.

They were—God forbid—buying slim-fit trousers.

“It is a biological cheat code!” shrieked a columnist in Le Monde.

“Where is the suffering? Where is the discipline of the cigarette and the black coffee?

How can one be truly thin if one has not earned it through a lifetime

Of judging others while eating a single radish for lunch?”

In the cafes of Montmartre, the mood was somber.

The usual pastime of “Spot the Tourist by the Width of their Khakis” had become impossible.

“I saw a group from Texas today,” a waiter lamented, dropping a carafe in despair.

“They had collarbones, Pierre. Actual, visible collarbones.

I tried to sneer at their appetite, but they ordered a small salad and left half of it.

That was my job! That was our thing! To be the ones who eat little and look better!”

The French Academy met in an emergency session to discuss the crisis.

The “American Fat Joke” was a cornerstone of French cultural heritage.

It was the glue that held their national identity together.

Without the ability to mock a tourist’s inability to navigate a narrow cobblestone street,

Who were they? Just people with a high tax rate and a lot of museums?

“They are stealing our brand,” the Chief Intellectual argued,

Adjusting his turtleneck with a flourish of indignation.

“The American identity is rooted in the Excess. The Grande. The Supersize.

By using Zepbound to achieve a BMI of 22, they are committing

A form of cultural appropriation. Slimness belongs to the Republic!”

The resentment boiled over into the streets.

Protesters marched through Lyon carrying signs that read:

RENDEZ-NOUS NOS AMÉRICAINS FORTS! (Give us back our stout Americans!)

And L’OZEMPIC EST UN CRIME CONTRE LA SUPÉRIORITÉ FRANÇAISE!

The French government officially filed a grievance with the UN.

They argued that the rapid weight loss in North America

Constitutes a “Disruption of Global Smugness Levels.”

If an accountant from Nebraska can now fit into a Saint Laurent suit,

The very fabric of the universe—specifically the part made of silk—will tear.

“It’s not fair,” pouted a fashion editor, sipping a glass of Sancerre.

“We spent centuries perfecting the art of looking effortlessly chic

While secretly being very hungry and grumpy.

Now, these Americans just click a button on a plastic pen,

And suddenly they are ‘waif-ish’?

They don’t even know how to wear a scarf with the proper ‘je ne sais quoi.’

They just look… healthy. It’s disgusting.”

The panic reached its zenith when a cruise ship docked in Marseille.

Usually, the gangplank would groan under the weight of the disembarking masses,

Providing the locals with hours of rhythmic tut-tutting.

But this time, a stream of lithe, energetic retirees jogged onto the pier.

They were wearing compression leggings. They had muscle definition.

They asked for the nearest hiking trail instead of the nearest deep-fryer.

A local baker collapsed into his flour sacks.

“They didn’t even look at the éclairs,” he sobbed.

“One of them looked at my mille-feuille and said,

‘That looks a bit carb-heavy, doesn’t it?’

I am the one who is supposed to judge them! That is the Natural Order!”

In a desperate bid to reclaim their status,

The French government considered subsidizing a national “Bulk-Up” program,

Briefly entertaining the idea of making everyone eat three wheels of Brie a day

Just so they could claim to be the “Real” people of substance.

But they realized that being fat would make them… like the old Americans.

And that was a fate worse than death.

So they sat in their cafes, thinner than ever out of pure spite,

Watching the news reports of plunging obesity rates in the Midwest.

They clutched their espresso cups with white-knuckled intensity,

Searching for a new flaw to exploit.

“Well,” one Frenchman finally whispered, looking at a photo

Of a newly-slender man from Cincinnati.

“He may be thin now… but his shoes are still square-toed.

And his wine… I bet he drinks it with ice.”

A collective sigh of relief swept through the bistro.

The Americans might be losing the weight,

But thank God, they would always have terrible taste in footwear.

 

The French superiority was safe. For now.