The Rich Man's Disease
In the past, obesity was called the rich man's disease.
It was a phenomenon seen only among royalty and nobility who had plenty to eat, so a thick layer of belly fat was even seen as a symbol of wealth and power.
Look at medieval European paintings, and you'll see eras when a voluptuous figure was the standard of beauty.
But in modern times, the situation has flipped 180 degrees.
The WHO has officially classified obesity as a disease.
America, in particular, is in dire straits.
Sometimes, walking down the street, I can't help but think when I see people passing by:
'Don't those folks feel sorry for their own blood vessels?'
They're shoving high-calorie, high-fat, high-sugar junk down their gullets, making their arteries scream.
So I made a decision.
I'd make sure they never have to feel sorry for their blood vessels again.
My company's best advertising model? Funny thing is, it's me.
Proving that kids who ate Korean school lunches for a year returned to normal weight was easier than I'd thought.
All it took was comparing the physical exam forms they submitted at enrollment with their results after a year of lunches.
Graph it out, and the upward weight curve that had been climbing dramatically bent into a downward slope.
Even more astonishing were the internal metrics.
Pediatric hypertension and pre-diabetes levels had all returned to normal ranges.
That was thanks to replacing refined flour-and-sugar-laden bread with Korean meals that perfectly balanced carbs, protein, vitamins, and fiber.
Armed with this data, I headed to the studio.
The lights shone down on me.
Across from me sat the anchor, Thompson.
"Welcome, Mr. Kim. You're the hottest name in California right now."
"Thank you for having me."
"Let's get to it. You've claimed you're solving America's chronic obesity problem. Is that really true?"
There was a hint of anticipation in the anchor's eyes.
I smiled leisurely and pointed to my prepared panel.
"Of course. Take a look at this graph."
The screen displayed the average BMI changes for Berkeley High students.
The sharply rising red line switched to blue at the point Han Sang lunches were introduced and began sloping gently downward.
"Oh..."
The anchor's eyes widened.
"This change in just one year? Without drugs or forced diet programs?"
"Yes. All the kids did was eat Korean food instead of pizza and fries for lunch. That's it."
"Unbelievable. What's the principle behind it?"
I spread my fingers and explained.
"Balance. Traditional lunches were heavy on carbs and fats. But Korean food provides satiety through vegetables while keeping calories low and filling essential nutrients. It's not pouring grease into your veins—it's supplying clean energy."
The anchor stared blankly at footage of kids leaving the cafeteria.
'I've lost weight and feel so much lighter.'
'I don't get as sleepy in class anymore.'
Vivid testimonials from the children.
The anchor looked at me with genuine admiration.
"You're basically in the healthcare business now. Mr. Kim, your Bapsang is saving our kids."
"You're too kind. I'm just putting an old Korean wisdom into practice: rice is the best medicine."
My confident smile toward the camera rode the airwaves across America.
In truth, my real reason for facing the broadcast cameras wasn't just company promotion.
A few days earlier, it was at Governor Christopher's request.
No matter that he was California's governor, the walls of entrenched interests were high and thick.
The mega-catering giants that had monopolized U.S. school lunches for decades.
They wielded massive funds to hire lobbyists pressuring Congress and politicians from all angles.
"Governor, granting exclusive rights to one company, Han Sang, goes against market principles."
"This is unfair trade. We'll reconsider political donations."
In America, the 'land of lobbying' tangled in money, their influence was impossible to ignore.
Governor Christopher asked me for justification.
The strongest, most ironclad rationale to shut their mouths and push the bill through.
That was the children's health.
So I went public with the data, proving Korean food's superiority.
The strategy hit home.
Even in a money-mad capitalist society, there's one sanctuary you don't touch.
The future hope: our children.
Once the broadcast aired, public opinion erupted.
"My kid got healthier from school lunches—who's the politician opposing that?!"
"Oppose it? I'll shove a bullet in their mouth!"
Parents—voters—exploded in fury.
What politicians fear most isn't losing corporate cash; it's losing the next election.
No bold soul dared cast a nay vote against kids' health for some lobby money.
It would've been political suicide.
Ding-
The office phone rang.
"Hello."
"Mr. Kim! You did it—thank you!"
His voice crackled with excitement over the line.
"That data you showed demolished millions in lobbying. Even the opposition in Congress backed down. We can push it as state policy now. Truly grateful."
"Glad I could help, Governor."
I replied humbly, smiling.
And a few days later.
California State Capitol.
Governor Christopher held a signing ceremony for the public school lunch improvement bill before crowds of reporters and lawmakers.
It was effectively mandating Han Sang lunches.
"Esteemed citizens of California."
On TV, the governor spoke with unprecedented passion and resolve.
"We've ignored our children's tables for too long. We've turned a blind eye to cheap processed foods poisoning their veins. But today, we take a great first step."
He clenched his fist and shouted.
"This is California's will to protect our children's future! No more compromising their health for money!"
Waaaaah!!!
Thunderous applause and flashing cameras.
I watched contentedly from my office sofa.
The governor gained the title of child-advocate politician; I secured the entire California school lunch market.
Win-win.
I could almost hear the mega-catering cartel crumbling through the screen.
New York headquarters of American Food Service (AFS), the dinosaur of U.S. food distribution.
The large conference room, usually buzzing with cheers over quarterly results, was now shrouded in funeral-like silence.
"......"
Chairman James flipped through the financial report with trembling hands, then slammed it on the table.
"So, what's the bottom line? If we abandon California, what's our exact loss?"
The CFO swallowed dryly, voice barely above a whisper.
"Pure revenue alone: $4.5 billion annually..."
"$4.5 billion?"
James's voice cracked in despair.
"Add logistics closures, contract penalties, stock drop... It's 30% of the group's entire operating profit evaporating."
"30%..."
Sighs rippled through the room.
California isn't just one of 50 states.
World's 5th largest economy.
America's most populous, highest-consuming region.
"What the hell were the lobbyists doing? How much cash did we stuff into those congressmen's mouths!"
The EVP of sales protested indignantly.
"Chairman, this wasn't a money fix. Their 'justification' was too powerful."
"Justification? For selling food?!"
"Children's lives and health."
The EVP pointed at the TV.
The governor was presenting data on kids thriving on Han Sang lunches.
"That data... that damn BMI graph turned even our bought congressmen. With voters glaring, who dares raise a hand for frozen pizza again? Political suicide."
"Ha..."
James clutched his head.
They'd feasted easily: addicting kids with sugar-salt bombs, blocking rivals with lobbying, sucking honey.
But Han Sang struck the cartel's weakest link: health.
"Chairman, the real problem is bigger."
The strategy head spoke gravely.
"California leads U.S. trends. If their law changes, New York, Chicago, Texas... domino effect. Other states will follow."
Terror.
Finally, real fear dawned in the execs' eyes.
Losing California wouldn't end it.
At this rate, their foothold in the entire U.S. school lunch market could vanish forever.
Healthy Korean food was stealing their turf root and stem.
"Find a way! Whatever it takes!"
James slammed the desk, bellowing.
"You think we'll crumble like this? Dig for weaknesses, grab dirt, or launch our own healthy line! Get countermeasures now!!"
But his roar echoed emptily into the void.
Gu-pung.
A state of blind, excessive national pride intoxication.
Internet slang mocking those numb to reality, obsessed with self-praise.
The stock gallery was in hysterics.
Screens crammed with garish red and yellow fonts.
Photoshopped shocked faces of world leaders.
And the titles below were a spectacle.
Gu-pung at lethal doses.
Gallery users couldn't hold back the laughs.
Sneers and mockery flooded the comments.
But those gu-pung YouTubers had a nose for money like bloodhounds.
They wouldn't miss America's hottest topic: 'Kim Ji-hoon' and 'Han Sang'.
Reactions here were different.
A weird mix of fact-checks and envy, beyond mere mockery.
Scroll further, and the real mood flip appeared.
Raw, realistic envy.
Korean society was blending gu-pung spoon-licking off Ji-hoon's success with pragmatic desire to share the fruits.