I promise to hold up my end of the bargain. I will continue to bring you the best my gut has to offer via my hit television broadcast, The Colbert Report. I will continue to make a wide variety of products available at my website that will help you to spread our message of me.
Well, you’ve reached the end of this book. If you read it hard enough, you should now be hearing my voice in your head. Put down the book for a second. Can you still hear me? Don’t be afraid to answer out loud. I can hear you, too.
Good.
You should also be seeing my thoughts in the margins of other books. I know in the introduction I said not to make a habit out of reading, but just like the main character in any truly great novel/autobiography, at the end, I’ve found myself a changed man. I’ve come to realize that my biggest problem with other books was simply that I didn’t write them.
Stay strong. Be brave. Share (newly bought copies of) this book with your friends and family. You’ll be glad you did. And more importantly, so will I. Because after all:
I Am America (And So Can You!)
And you can take that to the bank. I know I will.
Amen.
HOW TO RETIRE I AM AMERICA (And So Can You!) FOR THE EVENING
To properly close my book, begin by holding I Am America waist-high with another person so that Section A, my cover image, is parallel to the ground.
Fold the upper half of the cover, Section A, lengthwise over the field of text, Section B, holding the bottom portion, Section C, and edges, Section D, securely.
Step 3
Gently bring Section A to rest upon Section B and Section C being careful to support book from underside, or back cover, Section E. If executed correctly, the cover image should now be facing upwards. The book may now be put down. See you tomorrow!
APPENDIX
THE WHITE HOUSE CORRESPONDENTS’ DINNER
Wherever I go, from P. Diddy’s annual White Party to Hollywood premieres to the men’s room at Sharper Image, I meet Heroes.1 And they all want to know the same thing: “What was it like to be you, Stephen T. Colbert, at the 2006 White House Correspondents’ Dinner?” This is for them.
It was an average Thursday afternoon at The Report. I was making minor repairs to my power massage recliner when the phone rang.
“Colbert. Go.”
“Mr. Colbert, it’s Mark Smith, President of the White House Press Corps Association.”
I was suspicious. Mark Smith? It sounded like a made up name.
“Go on, Mr. Smith.”
“Well, every year the Association holds a charity dinner and we would like you to be our after-dinner speaker. The President will be there.”
The President will be there. His words rang in my ear. I was interested, but first I had question: How much does it pay? I don’t care what the event is or who is going to be there. No. Free. Rides.
After my price was met, I threw myself into the preparations. Every night after the show, I would eat heavy banquet food and then stand behind a podium and try to talk. It was grueling work and there were some nights that I thought I couldn’t make it. But by the day before the event, I could talk for 30 minutes on a stomachful of Chicken Kiev and cheesecake. Nothing could stop me now. All that was left was to write the speech.
Now the Heroes know how fast I can write when I don’t edit myself. Caring about whether something “makes sense” or “promotes violence” only leads to writer’s block and ultimately suicide. I don’t play that game. My plan was to write the speech on the car ride over to the dinner. Unfortunately, the dinner turned out to be at the Washington Hilton—the same hotel where I was staying. That meant whatever remarks I was going to prepare would have to be written in the elevator ride from my suite to the banquet room. I’d have to wing everything else straight from my gut. So be it. I love a challenge, plus elevators have emergency stop buttons.
Finally, the night came. April 29, 2006. Was I nervous? Sure. But I put on my game face. I also put on my game clothes. The Tuxedo. I was born to wear a tux. In fact, as a child my parents used to rent me out as a ring bearer for shotgun weddings.
* * *
NEWS FLASH: I wore my White House Correspondents’ Dinner tuxedo to the 2006 Emmy Awards. After I lost, I had it cremated and scattered over Barry Manilow.
* * *
First stop was a private VIP cocktail party with the President. How exclusive was it? Two words: Open Bar. Not even drink tickets. Karl Rove just stamped the back of your hand when you came in.
I was mixing with the crème de la crème of Republican celebrities. Names like Tommy Lasorda and the wife from Everybody Loves Raymond.
Then, George W. Bush arrived. He made a beeline for me, in that, like a bee, he went all around the room and then came up to me last.
“Pleased to meet you, ColberT.”
Then he extended the hand that signed off on “Shock and Awe.” It was as soft as a mitten made from angel food cake. His eyes were steely, and he had the faraway look of a man who was replaying a video game in his mind.
With the President by my side, I was now ready to give the Washington Press Corps a pranging they would not soon forget. I was inspired, I was focused, and I had to pee like a racehorse at an iced tea convention. I approached a Secret Service agent and asked where the Little Pundits’ room was. He led me down a hallway to a door emblazoned with the Great Seal and the words “POTUS Only.” I was going to use the bathroom reserved for our Commander in Chief. My heart swelled with pride as I lifted the seat and imagined Eisenhower, Nixon, and Reagan doing the same—really made it hard to get a flow started. But I’m proud to say I left my mark in that true Hall of Presidents. My only regret was that I had a light lunch.
Sitting on the dais overlooking Washington’s elite, I felt like the Best Man at a wedding between the Statue of Liberty and Mount Rushmore. Everywhere I looked there were members of Congress, Justices of the Supreme Court, and Distinguished Black Actors. My months of training came in handy when the meal turned out to be both surf and turf. I entered what climbers call the Death Zone. With a bellyful of protein, I watched President Bush’s presentation, which co-starred a President Bush impersonator. By this point, I was so high on endorphins that I had double vision, so to me, there were four President Bushes up there. Ecstasy!
Then it was my turn. My heart raced as I strode to the podium and brought it hot and hard:
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Before I begin, I’ve been asked to make an announcement. Whoever parked 14 black bulletproof SUVs out front, could you please move them? They are blocking in 14 other black bulletproof SUVs and they need to get out.
Sometimes now when I dream, I’m back up there!
Wow. Wow, what an honor. The White House Correspondents’ Dinner. To actually sit here, at the same table with my hero, George W. Bush, to be this close to the man. I feel like I’m dreaming. Somebody pinch me. You know what? I’m a pretty sound sleeper—that may not be enough. Somebody shoot me in the face. Is he really not here tonight? Damnit. The one guy who could have helped.
By the way, before I get started, if anybody needs anything else at their tables, just speak slowly and clearly into your table numbers. Somebody from the NSA will be right over with a cocktail. Mark Smith, ladies and gentlemen of the press corps, Madame First Lady, Mr. President, my name is Stephen Colbert and tonight it’s my privilege to celebrate this President. We’re not so different, he and I. We get it. We’re not brainiacs on the nerd patrol. We’re not members of the Factinista. We go straight from the gut, right sir? That’s where the truth lies, right down here in the gut. Do you know you have more nerve endings in your gut than you have in your head? You can look it up. I know some of you are going to say “I did look it up, and that’s not true.” That’s because you looked it up in a book.
Small intestine: 26 feet long. Brain: 10 inches, tops. Sorry, brain fans!
Next time, look it up in your gut. I did. My gut tells me that’s how our nervous system works. Every night on
my show, The Colbert Report, I speak straight from the gut, OK? I give people the truth, unfiltered by rational argument. I call it the “No Fact Zone.” Fox News, I hold a copyright on that term. 2
I’m a simple man with a simple mind. I hold a simple set of beliefs that I live by. Number one, I believe in America. I believe it exists. My gut tells me I live there. I feel that it extends from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and I strongly believe it has 50 states. And I cannot wait to see how the Washington Post spins that one tomorrow. I believe in democracy. I believe democracy is our greatest export. At least until China figures out a way to stamp it out of plastic for three cents a unit.
51, if you count both Dakotas.
In fact, Ambassador Zhou Wenzhong, welcome. Your great country makes our Happy Meals possible. I said it’s a celebration. I believe the government that governs best is the government that governs least. And by these standards, we have set up a fabulous government in Iraq.
I believe in pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps. I believe it is possible—I saw this guy do it once in Cirque du Soleil. It was magical. And though I am a committed Christian, I believe that everyone has the right to their own religion, be you Hindu, Jewish or Muslim. I believe there are infinite paths to accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior.
I also saw an after-hours show in Vegas called The Trickle-Down. Truly uplifting.
Ladies and gentlemen, I believe it’s yogurt. But I refuse to believe it’s not butter. Most of all, I believe in this President.
If he was dairy, he’d be American cheese.
Now I know there are some polls out there saying this man has a 32% approval rating. But guys like us, we don’t pay attention to the polls.3 We know that polls are just a collection of statistics that reflect what people are thinking in “reality.” And reality has a well-known liberal bias.
26%, as of this printing.
So, Mr. President, please, pay no attention to the people who say the glass is half full. 32% means the glass—it’s important to set up your jokes properly, sir. Sir, pay no attention to the people who say the glass is half empty, because 32% means it’s 2/3 empty. There’s still some liquid in that glass is my point, but I wouldn’t drink it. The last third is usually backwash.
Note to editor: Be sure to remove my flubbed line.
Okay, look, folks, my point is that I don’t believe this is a low point in this presidency. I believe it is just a lull before a comeback. I mean, it’s like the movie Rocky. All right. The President in this case is Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed is—everything else in the world. It’s the tenth round. He’s bloodied. His corner man is Mick, who in this case I guess would be the Vice President, and Bush is yelling, “Cut me, Dick, cut me!,” and every time he falls everyone says, “Stay down! Stay down!” Does he stay down? No. Like Rocky, he gets back up, and in the end he—actually, he loses in the first movie.
Maybe he’s more like Stallone’s Demolition Man—someone from the past who blows things up.
Spoiler alert!
OK. Doesn’t matter. The point is it is the heartwarming story of a man who was repeatedly punched in the face. So don’t pay attention to the approval ratings that say 68% of Americans disapprove of the job this man is doing. I ask you this, does that not also logically mean that 68% approve of the job he’s not doing? Think about it. I haven’t.
I stand by this man. I stand by this man because he stands for things. Not only for things, he stands on things. Things like aircraft carriers and rubble and recently flooded city squares. And that sends a strong message: that no matter what happens to America, she will always rebound—with the most powerfully staged photo ops in the world.
The snapshots heard ’round the world.
Now there may be an energy crisis. This President has a very forward-thinking energy policy. Why do you think he’s down on the ranch cutting that brush all the time? He’s trying to create an alternative energy source. By 2008 we will have a mesquite-powered car!
And I just like the guy. He’s a good Joe. Obviously loves his wife, calls her his better half. And polls show America agrees. She’s a true lady and a wonderful woman. But I just have one beef, ma’am. I’m sorry, but this reading initiative. I’m sorry—I’ve never been a fan of books. I don’t trust them. They’re all fact, no heart. I mean, they’re elitist, telling us what is or isn’t true, or what did or didn’t happen. Who’s Britannica to tell me the Panama Canal was built in 1914? If I want to say it was built in 1941, that’s my right as an American!4 I’m with the President—let history decide what did or did not happen.
The greatest thing about this man is he’s steady. You know where he stands. He believes the same thing Wednesday that he believed on Monday, no matter what happened Tuesday. Events can change; this man’s beliefs never will.
Never switch belief-horses midstream-of-consciousness.
As excited as I am to be here with the President, I am appalled to be surrounded by the liberal media that is destroying America, with the exception of Fox News. Fox News gives you both sides of every story: the President’s side and the Vice President’s side.5
Geraldo also gives his mustache’s side.
But the rest of you, what are you thinking, reporting on NSA wiretapping or secret prisons in Eastern Europe?6 Those things are secret for a very important reason: they’re super-depressing. And if that’s your goal, well, misery accomplished.
Over the last five years you people were so good—over tax cuts, WMD intelligence, the effect of global warming. We Americans didn’t want to know, and you had the courtesy not to try to find out. Those were good times, as far as we knew.
Why not Tale of One City? “It was the best of times. The end.”
But, listen, let’s review the rules. Here’s how it works: the President makes decisions. He’s the Decider. The press secretary announces those decisions, and you people of the press type those decisions down. Make, announce, type. Just put ’em through a spellcheck and go home. Get to know your family again. Make love to your wife. Write that novel you got kicking around in your head. You know—the one about the intrepid Washington reporter with the courage to stand up to the administration. You know—fiction!
1. Make.
2. Announce.
3. Type.
4. Do it.
Or Fantasy.
Because really, what incentive do these people have to answer your questions, after all? I mean, nothing satisfies you. Everybody asks for personnel changes. So the White House has personnel changes. Then you write, “Oh, they’re just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.” First of all, that is a terrible metaphor. This administration is not sinking. This administration is soaring. If anything, they are rearranging the deck chairs on the Hindenburg!
And we’ve got a window seat!
Now it’s not all bad guys out there. Some are heroes: Christopher Buckley, Jeff Sacks, Ken Burns, Bob Schieffer. They’ve all been on my show. By the way, Mr. President, thank you for agreeing to be on my show. I was just as shocked as everyone here is, I promise you. How’s Tuesday for you? I’ve got Frank Rich, but we can bump him. And I mean bump him. I know a guy. Say the word.
Episodes #2032, #2027, #110, and #2028
The word: Nucular.
See who we’ve got here tonight. General Moseley, Air Force Chief of Staff. General Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They still support Rumsfeld. Right, you guys aren’t retired yet, right? Right, they still support Rumsfeld.
Now Rumsfeld can finally say what he thought about himself!
Look, by the way, I’ve got a theory about how to handle these retired generals causing all this trouble: don’t let them retire! Come on, we’ve got a stop-loss program; let’s use it on these guys. I’ve seen Zinni and that crowd on Wolf Blitzer. If you’re strong enough to go on one of those pundit shows, you can stand on a bank of computers and order men into battle. Come on.
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