Bub roasts Casey Means, Trump’s nomination for Surgeon General.
Equal parts truth, sass, and spirulina:
Beat drops. Lights dim. Bub steps to the mic.
She walked out the O.R. — Before the fifth-year round — Said, “Scalpels aren’t sacred, — But smoothies are sound.”
Now she’s got almond milk influence — And a podcast glow, Prescribing beet juice— Like it’s FDA-approved to flow.
She said, “The system’s broken,” — Dropped her badge at the door. — But sis, you’re still selling — Supplements at the store.
You dodged the residency, — But made the rounds on X. — Claimed kale could cure u s— Just ignore the side effects.
She talked to the trees — And the trees talked back. — But science said, — “Please, Could we stay on track?”
Now she’s standing beside RFK and The Don, — Forming the holy trinity — Of “What planet are we on?”
And Trump? Oh Trump, — You adorable beast — You said, “She’s fantastic,” — While chomping your feast — Of Diet Cokes and Big Macs, — Glazed in irony, — Appointing a surgeon general — Who fears Vitamin B-3.
She’s got charts, she’s got stats, — She’s got that Stanford shine— But if I eat one more tofu scramble, — I’ll need emergency wine.
No hate on the woo, — We all need to heal— But maybe not from A turmeric-sponsored deal?
So here’s to the nation’s doctor, — With her celery wand raised high — May your chakras stay open, — And your malpractice risk stay dry.
Mic drop. Spirulina glitter falls from the ceiling.
Alex Bakerloo 