In America, scales decide who gets to fight, who gets to watch, and who sits it out. The only ones using them for something sane are the mules.

My heart is with the troops tonight. Not the chiseled ones, the ones that ripple with muscle when they walk. No, my heart is with those who loathe a set of scales and a measuring tape as much as I do. Like the airmen I met during Air Force basic training, a place where everything was done together, unless you failed to make weight. Those chubby folk were cut from the herd at meal time and marched over to the “fat table” where every bite was supervised. Body positivity was not a thing in the military.

Across the expanse of the chow hall, amid the din of silverware and dishes, under the stern glares of men in starched green uniforms, I watched them and felt their shame. I shuddered and passed on dessert, knowing I was so close to being with them.

Fat troops don’t get second helpings and they don’t get trips to watch near naked men pound each other bloody for the amusement of their elderly commander in chief.

It’s Pride month and the President will not be attending the parades, thus no jerky hand dance to YMCA in the streets. Maybe the log cabin Republicans will perform it in his honor. But he has arranged for a more bespoke event. A very manly event. A UFC event is to be staged right on the front lawn of the people’s house. 

It’s a whole production and Pete Hegseth is in charge of central casting. When it comes to men, Hegseth and Trump have a type. They like ‘em lean. Hegseth would make a great fat table monitor. Only the most fit will be selected as stage props, strategically arranged around the President. Hard men. Soldiers. Ready to fight. Reeking of testosterone and foot powder. 

The primary metric applied to filter the fatties is the “proportional body composition ratio,” whose core formula is a waist to height ratio of under 0.55. The White House UFC Standard applied to a man with the physique of a quarterback, say 6 feet 4 inches tall and 230-pounds could have a maximum waistline of 41.8 inches. Those meeting the standard may proceed directly to the Capitol Coliseum and greet the gladiators.

The strict standards are necessary for the health and safety of President Trump and Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth. Adipose tissue is painful for them if observed on others. No extra leeway or exemptions will be granted for those with white nationalist tats. Save that reveal for promotion time. A woman meeting the metrics might be allowed in, but only to serve hors d’oeuvres.

But you know what standard that sculpted warrior does not meet? 

I’ll tell you. That son of Sparta, brawny and buff, far exceeds the Grand Canyon Mule Standard. It’s not even close. 

On my first and only trip to the Canyon, I observed with keen interest the mule trains heading down Bright Angel Trail. How cool it would be to travel pioneer style down the long steep trail from the South Rim to Phantom Ranch. Peacefully swaying along, listening to the clack of the sure-footed hooves on rock.

But there was a hitch at the hitching post. Weight standards. A scale even. The evil haunting me since age seventeen at Lackland Air Force Base. It had been a long time since I fit in the uniform I keep in the back of the closet just to remember being that small. 

The Mule Standard is 200 lbs, all inclusive. You, clothes, backpack, camera, water, wishes, and dreams. 200 lbs in toto. It’s for the health and safety of the mule. Nobody wants to see a mule plummet to the bottom of the canyon with a screaming fatty on its back.

I looked at the mule. The mule looked back. He said “Nope.”

I felt the gaze of thin tourists as they mounted up. I trudged off to eat a Snickers and blow the sand out of my camera. That day, all my photos would be from the rim.

A friend gave comfort, pointing out that all the way down I would have been stuck looking at a horse’s ass anyway. 

Years have passed. Today I proudly meet the mule standard with room to spare. It’s been a long struggle, but I plan to celebrate by returning to the canyon one day and joining the mule train. It’s a bucket list thing.

Fact. A standard trail mule stands 58 inches at the withers with an average girth of 71 inches, giving it a waist-to-height ratio of 1.22, more than double the White House UFC event standard of 0.55. Despite its stamina and extreme level of fitness, the mule fails the Trump test.

Which means the only horse’s asses you will see at Trump’s UFC event will likely be in the VIP seats. And the people parked behind them are stuck with the view.