“The American sprinter Sha’Carri Richardson, who was set for a star turn at the Tokyo Olympics this month, could miss the Games after testing positive for marijuana.” — New York Times, 7/3/21

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Six months ago, I was 250 pounds of skin and bone, with a BMI that broke the scale and muscles too weak to open a pickle jar. I broke into a wheezing fit after going down one flight of stairs, and my doctor said if I didn’t change something fast I was probably going to die of a heart attack at 23 even though I’m 26.

I have spent the last half-year constantly smoking the world’s most notorious performance-enhancing drug: marijuana.

I knew that I was the only person who could change my destiny, but I also knew I needed the help of a substance that gives you the sheer motivation and terror of chugging three Monster Energy drinks mixed with coffee and Red Bull. Just like alcohol transforms the average 16-year-old into the safest driver on the road and nicotine makes your lungs work really well, marijuana turns even the most sedentary into world-class athletes.

Growing up, I never walked more than a mile and never ran more than three steps. In middle school, my nickname was “Human Sloth” because I was the only sixth-grader who had to take remedial physical education on the weekends, which I also flunked. Today, I am proud to be competing for the United States at the Tokyo Games in twenty-seven disciplines, not including rhythmic gymnastics. Unfortunately, I was disqualified from shot put when at trials in Eugene, Oregon, I accidentally decapitated a man sitting on his porch in Salem.

It wasn’t always this easy. I used to spend most of my days completely zoned out, doing lines of coke in my parents’ garage while laughing my ass off to a video of Peppa Pig snorting that played on a four-hour loop. After I had done all the cocaine, I would spend $50-600 Doordashing candy, chips, chicken nuggets, and more cocaine from an incredibly sketchy Wawa. Then I would fall asleep, knowing I would repeat the entire ritual again the next day.

Chain-smoking pot and doing one push-up and one sit-up every Tuesday has turned me into the gold medal favorite in every sport from rugby to equestrian. I don’t even know what the “modern pentathlon” is, but I know I’m going to medal in it. I am 200 pounds of pure, lean muscle. Marijuana also helped me grow six inches, giving me balletic grace and the neck of a giraffe.

You’re probably wondering how I am legally able to compete at the Olympics if I smoke eighteen grams of weed every hour. I bear a striking resemblance to Michael Phelps at the height of his athleticism/Chris Hemsworth as Thor/Scarlett Johansson as Black Widow/Seth Rogen if he looked like Michael Phelps at the height of his athleticism.

I could chug a handle of vodka, be a huge douche, and pull a Ryan Lochte by robbing a convenience store, and I would still be able to compete in the Olympics. Come to think of it, they’ve never even drug-tested me. For us “All-American” athletes, the rules don’t apply.

Let’s face it, the United States Olympic Committee is usually too busy ignoring sexual abuse scandals and chastising Black athletes for peacefully protesting to notice me toking up by the shooting range.

Okay, it’s time to take my every-three-hour edible and bench 387 pounds. See you at the Games! USA! USA! USA!