In a dramatic press conference held somewhere between science and sketch comedy, Kate McKinnon announced her tongue has gone full cartographer. The condition is called geographic tongue, which sounds like a travel blog and looks like a weather map that forgot its meds.

She described it as “gross” with the poise of a juror dismissing a glitter heist, which is the precise level of dignity this medical phenomenon deserves. Imagine a lava lamp auditioning for a road atlas, and you’re halfway to the mouth.

Doctors confirm geographic tongue is benign, like a cat that loudly judges you but never pays rent. It doesn’t hurt, it just patterns itself in swirls and patches, the Jackson Pollock of saliva.

Naturally, Hollywood responded with empathy by immediately developing a streaming limited series titled Tongue: A Journey, featuring sweeping drone shots of molars and the prestige of a cookbook nobody cooks from.

Overnight, wellness merchants pivoted faster than a Pilates instructor on a yacht. Searches for copper tongue scraper spiked, and one influencer claimed you can reroute the tectonic plates in your mouth by staring at the moon through a reusable mason jar.

Scientists attempted to explain that taste buds migrate, then were drowned out by a studio rep announcing a partnership with a GPS company. “Turn left at the frenulum” is the phrase that finally broke cartography.

Fans flooded social media with maps of their own mouths, which is precisely where civilization was always headed. One comment read, “My tongue just drew Nebraska,” which feels accurate and cruel to Nebraska.

A PR strategist suggested the condition is actually viral marketing for a forthcoming McKinnon character: a National Geographic narrator trapped in a dentist’s waiting room, describing the gumline like it’s the Serengeti at dusk.

Meanwhile, dental startups are offering tiny ring lights for tongues, because capitalism will accessorize anything that holds still. Early adopters swear by the cinematic clarity of an LED dental mirror, finally giving molars the red-carpet lighting they deserve.

Historians chimed in to note medieval mapmakers once labeled unknown seas “Here Be Dragons,” a phrase now reportedly tattooed on the tongue of everyone who says “I’m kind of a foodie” before microwaving soup.

As an entertainment critic, I admire the audacity: the audience becomes the co-author, and the mouth becomes the unreliable narrator. The business model is clear—sell tickets to the oral premiere and charge extra for the palate’s director’s cut.

McKinnon ended with a public service announcement: it’s harmless, it’s weird, it’s fine. Which, coincidentally, is also how most pilots describe landing a sitcom. She took a bow, her tongue folded like a map, and the crowd cheered, “Gross!”—finally, a review with taste.