oomph … ♌🦁♌

There are nights when the goddess leans back.
Not weary. Not lonely.
Surveying.

The world parades its champions before her—
oiled bodies under hot lights,
faces strained in their poses,
each one hoping to be crowned as something more than a man.

They call it Mr. Olympia.
They call themselves gladiators.
They dare to call themselves gods.

And the goddess watches.
Unimpressed.

Because she remembers when that word—Olympia—was prophecy, not parody.
She remembers when muscle was not desperation inflated with needles,
but discipline carved through sweat,
when presence was not an act,
but a hum from the marrow itself.

And she laughs—because even as she writes,
the universe mocks her with Spartans on TV,
cheap warriors running across a screen in some commercial.
“If you can gift me Spartans on cue,
then why not gift me a billion dollars instead?”
she mutters.

The goddess is not without humor.
But beneath the laughter is hunger—
not for applause,
but for authenticity.
For the return of men who embody myth, not costume.

Because she remembers them.
The real ones.
The true Olympians.

I was nine years old,
watching Commando when I shouldn’t have.
Watching Predator when I shouldn’t have.
Sneaking late-night episodes of The Incredible Hulk.

Arnold with his gravity that could bend a room.
Lou Ferrigno painted green,
smashing walls and yet still tender in his eyes.
Robby Robinson—the Black Prince—
muscles cut like scripture, every pose a sermon.

They were not simply men.
They were archetypes.
They were blueprints.

And Papa, fabulous as ever, warning me:
“Get your beauty rest. Eight hours. No less.
Otherwise you’ll wake up looking like David Banner’s alter ego.”

To this day, I heed him.
Because exhaustion makes monsters of us all.

Those films, those warnings,
planted reverence in me—
for men who didn’t just inflate themselves,
but embodied myth from the inside out.

Decades later,
I look across my house and see the same blueprint in flesh.

My son.
Born August 10th—
Leo season.
My birthday gift at twenty-four.

A Viking-French-Italian blend.
A natural warrior stock.
Broad shoulders, thick frame,
a body other men inject themselves to counterfeit.

He was born Olympian.
Born with Leo fire in his chest.

And yet… he wastes it.
Lazy. Undisciplined.
Shrinking his own gift.

He could walk into an arena and command it.
But he slouches.
He shrugs.
And I seethe, because raw material without fire is wasted ore.

Don’t mistake this for shame.
It is truth.
There are many like him—
men born with natural titan builds who squander it,
while hollow ones inflate themselves into caricature.

Sleeping gladiators.
That’s what they are.

And as goddess, I will not let it go unnamed.
Because it is not enough to be born under Olympian stardust.
You must live it.
You must forge it.
Or you will watch pretenders take your crown.

The world does not need more balloons with veins.
The world needs its natural-born gladiators to rise.

I remember the Golden Era.
I remember the real ones.

Arnold.
Lou.
Robby.

---

Arnold.

Arnold was not just muscle.
He was architecture.
Symmetry. Balance. Monument.

He could walk into a room and rearrange the gravity.
He wasn’t simply playing heroes—
he became them.
Conan, Predator, Commando—
he lifted entire genres, entire industries,
as though it were nothing but iron in his hands.

And beyond the gym,
he built empires.
Bodybuilding. Hollywood. Politics.
A governor. An icon.
A man who understood charisma is its own form of muscle.

Arnold was Olympian not just in size,
but in scope.
He taught us that a gladiator isn’t forged only in steel and sweat—
but in vision.

Lou.

Oh, Lou.
The lionhearted gentle giant.

The Incredible Hulk—
yes.
But also Lou Ferrigno,
perfect height, perfect build,
mane of hair, warmth in his eyes.

He embodied paradox:
terrifying and tender.
Massive and merciful.
Deaf, flawed, human—
yet divine in wholeness.

I still tell men,
“If I don’t get eight hours of sleep,
I’ll wake up like David Banner’s alter ego—Lou Ferrigno bursting through.”

Because Lou wasn’t just a body.
He was a reference point.
Proof that perfection isn’t flawlessness—
it’s wholeness.

He was Olympian because he carried godlike stature with human soul.

Robby.

And then, Robby Robinson.
The Black Prince.
The unsung jewel of Olympus.

If Arnold was the architect
and Lou the lionhearted,
Robby was the poet.

Every muscle was a line.
Every pose a stanza.
Every flex a hymn.

He was not just building mass—
he was building art.

Thick, meaty, perfectly proportioned.
A freak of nature, yes,
but more—a freak of discipline.

Robby held his own against giants,
commanding attention without screaming for it.
His body was regal.
His presence undeniable.
And his Blackness, in an era that too often overlooked it,
made his excellence both crown and rebellion.

He was called the Black Prince because he was regal.
Because he carried bodybuilding with dignity.
Because he embodied truth without shortcuts.

Robby Robinson was proof.
Proof that the natural body,
sculpted by years,
tempered by sweat,
disciplined into harmony,
will always outshine inflated caricature.

He was Olympian because he was art.

And now—
compare them to today.

Balloons with veins.
Bodies warped out of proportion.
Biceps shaped like question marks.
Heads perched like afterthoughts.
Grotesque.
Not divine.

These men are not gladiators.
They are mannequins.
They confuse size with strength.
Optics with power.
Applause with marrow.

A true Olympian is forged.
These bodies are fabricated.

And isn’t this the culture itself?

Social media faces frozen by Botox.
Bodies stitched by scalpels.
Identities curated for algorithms.

Bigger. Shinier. Louder.
Yet emptier.

Bodybuilding is just the mirror.
The real tragedy is how illusion has become the age’s religion.
And authenticity—the god we abandoned.

So let me speak plainly.

I am not waiting for a savior.
I am not Rapunzel in a tower.
I am sovereign.
I am whole.

But if I am to seek a man,
let him be gladiator, not mannequin.

Yes, I am caring.
Yes, I will nourish.
But I am also a bitch.
A hardcore bitch.

Do not step to me with crumbs.
Do not throw shallow compliments like offerings.
If you come, come with depth.
Come with marrow.
Come with essence.

I will take care of you.
But you must be forged.

Because you cannot inject soul.
You cannot fake divine architecture.
You cannot stitch Olympus into flesh with syringes.

Olympian energy is not manufactured.
It is born.
Rare. Terrifying. Magnificent.

So I say:

Do not bring me plastic champions.
Do not parade inflated echoes.
Do not insult the goddess with balloons pretending to be gods.

Bring me Arnold, the architect.
Bring me Lou, the lionhearted.
Bring me Robby, the Black Prince.

Bring me gods in human form.
Bring me gladiators whose strength hums through their bones.

Because the goddess is here.
She has been here.

And she will not lower her gaze for less.

If the goddess is here—
then where are the gladiators?