When some anti-racist Internet activists demanded that Stephen Colbert be punished for making fun of the very people they oppose, I nearly joined them. It’s not because I think Colbert hates Chinese people. It’s because canceling The Colbert Report would mean an end to remembering the time I saw a man taking a shit on a New York City sidewalk.
It was Friday, November 11, 2011. I was walking from Union Square on my way to meet my girlfriend at Irving Plaza for a Sage Francis show. I saw Stephen Colbert walking out of a restaurant and putting on his jacket. Meeting celebrities always sucks giant dick, so I didn’t say anything and instead rounded the corner to meet my fate.
At first I couldn’t tell what I was looking at. It appeared to be a bunch of orange fabric holding up a pile of ashy brown lunch meat, except no lunch meat I’ve ever seen has pimples and cellulite. I was staring at a large hunk of filthy ass-meat. The owner of the ass, a homeless man, was staring at me with desperation in his eyes, straining to take a shit in public.
A giant log was making its way out of him. It looked like a chocolate Bundt cake giving birth to a slimy charcoal briquette. Sweat pooled on the man’s forehead as he strained and pushed like a mother giving birth. The smell of a thousand clogged toilets washed over me, invading my nostrils, assaulting me with acrid vapors. From his throne in hell, Satan broke out in laughter.
When the Dark Lord of Eternal Torment had taken enough pleasure in my horror, the seemingly endless log finally pinched itself off, smacking a sewer grate with a heavy thud. The homeless man in the orange pants never broke eye contact with me the entire time.
An hour later I was standing in the crowd at Irving Plaza, watching a bearded man on stage rhythmically pouring out his soul to sick beats. The crowd was feeling it. Stephen Colbert stood next to me, his glassy eyes shimmering from the stage lights as he silently mouthed the words Sage Francis was rapping. He began straining to get something out of his throat. It looked like a cat hacking up a hairball in slow motion. A giant cylinder of shit, speckled with peanuts and corn kernels, pushed its way up his throat and out of his mouth. His eyes watered from behind his glasses as he cut what looked like a giant peanut chew off with his teeth. It hit the floor with a weighty plunk, standing on edge, tapered at the end like the world’s most disgusting Hershey’s Kiss.
OK, that last part didn’t happen. Stephen Colbert wasn’t in the crowd at the show, and he didn’t push shit from his mouth like a Martian doll, but everything else is true. I saw Colbert and less than a minute later, I saw a man make 14th Street his bathroom.
When I read the news that Stephen Colbert will be taking over David Letterman’s Late Show, I lost any hope of living a normal life again. I doubt I’ll ever recover from the events of 11/11. My trigger will be there on TV every night, reigniting the flames of my personal hell.
The dim-witted social-justice warriors behind the #CancelColbert hashtag were my last hope for sanity in a post-public-hobo-shit world. They’ve failed me. My world will be a bum’s asshole until Colbert is flushed for good.