I was enjoying a perfectly adequate frittata in the green room at CBS Mornings, waiting to deliver my scheduled segment on the optics of the debt ceiling, when Governor JB Pritzker made his confession. The Illinois executive and presumed presidential aspirant admitted he has been on a GLP-1 weight-loss regimen since early 2024. He has shed 80 pounds in the process.
He looked fantastic, of course. His signature suits drape differently now, hanging from a frame that no longer aggressively tests the tensile strength of wool. But as I watched him cheerfully discuss his newfound health with the anchors, a cold dread washed over me. I am just asking the questions no one else will: if the governor of a major Midwestern state chemically eradicates his own hunger, how can he possibly maintain a connection to the ravenous, unsated soul of the American electorate?
The path to the White House is paved with profound, necessary gastric distress. For a century, the social contract between the American voter and the political elite has been rigorously enforced at the diner counter and the county fair. We demand that our Ivy League-educated millionaires roll up their sleeves, sit on a vinyl stool in a swing state, and force down a plate of smothered hash browns to prove they are one of us.
This is the crucible of retail politics. You look a laid-off auto worker in the eye, you nod empathetically, and you eat the fried pork tenderloin sandwich. You do not stop when you are full. You stop when the photographer from the Associated Press has captured the exact moment your dignity leaves your body.
Pritzker’s reliance on semaglutide destroys this sacred democratic tradition. A man whose stomach has been artificially paralyzed by a miracle peptide simply cannot consume a deep-fried Snickers bar at the Iowa State Fair. He will take one bite, his delayed gastric emptying will engage, and he will respectfully decline the rest, leaving the working class to wonder if he thinks he is better than the food that is slowly killing them.
I spoke on background with a senior aide to a rival potential candidate, and they confirmed my worst fears about the 2028 cycle. The opposition research practically writes itself. The moment Pritzker turns down a second slice of cherry pie at a VFW hall in New Hampshire, his opponents will blanket the airwaves with attack ads accusing him of being soft on carbohydrates and fundamentally out of touch with the diabetic reality of the heartland.
The American people want a commander-in-chief who is fighting a losing battle against their own worst impulses, just like they are.
Say what you will about our previous leaders, but they understood the assignment. Bill Clinton routinely jeopardized his own cardiovascular system for the sake of a photo op at a regional fast-food chain. Donald Trump consumes catering with the unhinged zeal of an emperor who has never been told no. These men governed with their appetites fully intact, projecting a raw, untreated hunger that terrified our geopolitical rivals.
Which brings me to the national security implications of the GLP-1 phenomenon. During a closed-door meeting at a defense think tank last month, I raised a point that brought the room to a dead halt. I asked the assembled admirals what it means for global deterrence when our potential leaders are chemically insulated from the concept of wanting more.
Vladimir Putin is not injecting Tirzepatide to fit into his judo pants. Xi Jinping does not experience chemically induced nausea when presented with a third helping of state resources. Our adversaries are operating with their baseline biological cravings completely unsuppressed. If Pritzker sits across from them at a summit in Geneva, will he have the stomach to demand sweeping territorial concessions, or will his GLP-1 receptors convince him that the United States already has enough geopolitical influence?
We must also consider the economic insult this represents to the hardworking agricultural conglomerates I regularly defend on the Sunday shows. Pritzker is the governor of Illinois, a state built on the noble, patriotic extraction of high-fructose corn syrup. By shedding 80 pounds, he has personally removed a significant source of demand from his own local economy.
It is a betrayal of the corn lobby. Every pound of weight a Midwestern governor loses is an affront to the subsidized grain farmers who rely on the American public remaining trapped in a perpetual cycle of insulin spikes and subsequent snacking. Pritzker, a billionaire heir, can easily afford the thousand dollars a month required to bypass this system. The voters he intends to court cannot.
When a political figure reduces their personal caloric intake by thirty percent, they are effectively imposing localized austerity measures on the snack food industry.
I have long argued that we are too hard on pharmaceutical companies. I personally own a modest, entirely ethical amount of stock in Novo Nordisk, and I believe their executives deserve medals for allowing wealthy people to purchase willpower over the counter. But using these wonder drugs to alter the fundamental physics of a presidential campaign crosses a line from personal healthcare into electoral manipulation.
A source close to leadership recently told me that the Democratic caucus is terrified of this exact scenario. They are looking at a bench of potential nominees who are all quietly scheduling appointments with boutique endocrinologists. We are facing the grim prospect of a 2028 primary season populated entirely by gaunt, well-hydrated politicians who politely sip tap water and pick at edamame while union bosses try to hand them plates of bratwurst.
I will never forget sitting next to Pritzker at a private donor retreat in Aspen three years ago, back when he still possessed his original, unmedicated gravity. He ate a massive slice of prime rib with the confidence of a man who understood how power actually works. He commanded the room because he occupied so much of it.
Now, he is just another slender executive in a tailored suit, pretending that his medically induced portion control is a sign of moral discipline. He has lost 80 pounds, but he has also lost the heavy, labored breathing that lets the American people know their leader is working hard. If he truly wants to be president, he owes it to the voters to cancel his prescription, sit down at a Waffle House, and eat until it hurts.