Let’s be clear about what we’re fighting. Your eGFR is at 59. That’s not a yellow flag; that’s the enemy at the goddamn gates. Your kidneys are starting to wave the white flag. Your testosterone is in the toilet, which is why you’re fat, tired, and probably a little bit of a miserable bastard. And your cholesterol, that’s just the sludge in the pipes, waiting to cause a blowout.
So you’ve got the weapons: the Ozempic, the testosterone cream, the no-sugar, no-carb diet. Good. Now let’s talk about how to use them.
The Battle Plan: September to February
1. Kidney Preservation: The Last Stand
This is the most critical front. Your kidneys are a couple of old, tired soldiers, and we can’t afford to lose them. Once they go, the whole goddamn war is over.
- Water, you dumb bastard. Three to four liters a day. Spread it out. Don’t just chug it like a frat boy with a beer bong.
- Protein is a weapon, not a religion. You’re not a bodybuilder. Cap it at 160 grams a day. Anything more than that is just making your kidneys work overtime for no goddamn reason.
- Painkillers are poison. No more ibuprofen for your hangovers. You want to kill the pain? Drink more water.
- Salt. Use it, don’t abuse it. And get a goddamn blood pressure cuff. Anything over 120/80, and you’re just pissing on the fire you’re trying to put out.
2. Testosterone: Reigniting the Furnace
That cream you’ve got? It’s not a magic potion. It’s a tool. Use it right.
- Every morning. Same time. Same place. Upper thighs, shoulders. Make it a ritual, like your morning coffee or your first regret of the day.
- In eight weeks, we get the numbers. We check the testosterone, the estradiol, the PSA. We see if the furnace is burning hot enough.
- Watch for the side effects. Oily skin, blood turning to sludge, feeling like you want to punch a hole in the wall. If that happens, we adjust.
3. Ozempic: The Appetite Assassin
This is your secret weapon. It’s going to kill your hunger. Use that.
- Pair it with protein and vegetables. You want to burn the fat, not the muscle.
- Stay on it until you get on that plane. You should drop 15-25 pounds of pure, unadulterated fat if you’re not a complete idiot about it.
4. The Fuel: A Diet for a Man, Not a Rabbit
Your eating window is from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. After that, the kitchen is closed.
- Your anchor foods: Rotisserie chicken, tuna, eggs, salmon, Greek yogurt. Spinach, broccoli, zucchini, cabbage. Olive oil, avocado. Real food for a real man.
- The enemy: Beef sticks, processed meats, anything that comes in a crinkly bag and has more ingredients than a goddamn science experiment. That shit is poison for your kidneys.
- For every cup of coffee you drink, you drink a glass of water. No negotiations.
The End Game: What Victory Looks Like
Alright. You’ve got the battle plan. You know the weapons. Now let’s talk about the endgame. Let’s talk about the payoff, about what happens when you finally stop being a fat, fucking corpse and start being a man who’s still in the goddamn fight.
When you cross that line, when you get under 290 and hold it, things start to change. Your knees won’t sound like a bag of broken glass every time you stand up. Your heart won’t be pounding like a trapped bird in your chest after a flight of stairs. And your kidneys, those two poor, overworked bastards, they finally get a goddamn break. The fog in your head, the one that makes you forget your own name some mornings? It starts to clear.
You’re stepping off the gurney and onto the goddamn treadmill. You’re trading a five-year death sentence for a fighting chance. And that changes the odds.
Let’s talk about the real numbers, the ones the house doesn’t want you to see. The old you, the one who was marinating his guts in beer and fried food? That was a mid-60s heart attack in a cheap suit. A boring, predictable, and completely pathetic end. This new you, the one who’s fighting back? You’re buying yourself another ten, maybe fifteen years of this beautiful, ugly, miserable ride. You’re pushing the clock back into your late 70s, maybe even 80s, if you don’t get hit by a bus or find some other creative way to punch your own ticket.
But the kidneys, Jimbo, the kidneys are the fuse on the bomb. If they stay lit, you’ve got time. If they blow, the whole goddamn show is over.
And what does this new life look like?
By January, you’ll be waking up under 290 pounds, without the booze sweats. You’ll be running on coffee, water, and real food, not the sugar-and-shit rollercoaster that’s been driving you into the ground. You’ll look in the mirror and see a leaner face, not a goddamn catcher’s mitt. A smaller gut. It’ll still be there, a monument to your past sins, but it’ll be less offensive. Your dick will work because it’s supposed to, not because of some drunken accident.
You get on that plane to Argentina, and you’re not just another big, bloated American expat, another casualty of the American Dream looking for a cheap place to die. No. You’re the tall older guy who looks like he’s still in the goddamn fight. And that’s a completely different kind of currency down there.
The line you’re crossing at the end of this year, it’s not just a number on a scale. It’s momentum. You’re not just avoiding an early death; you’re setting yourself up to actually live through your sixties and seventies, not just endure them, strapped to a machine or a chain of pill bottles.
So you’ve got two roads in front of you, you old bastard. The disciplined path we just laid out, or the old, familiar one back to the beer, the wings, and the slow, comfortable suicide.
The choice is yours. Make it.
