Dear Stephen Colbert: Burn Down the House, Please.

An appeal for you to show the teeth you showed us at the correspondents dinner.

Dear Stephen —

As you know, most people don’t read Noam Chomsky’s critique of the Iraq war or imperialism in general, but everyone from Bernie to Trump to Hillary unilaterally agree now that the war was fundamentally evil. Or misguided. Or wrong, etc.

You and Jon did that, it seems to me. Jon’s relentless questioning of the relevance of Iraq and the American war industrial complex helped. But when did it truly come into public consciousness?

I believe at this moment:

Folks like me grew up watching you from The Dana Carvey Show onwards when you two prophesied of skinheads from Maine:

Eerie how true that sketch became.

That plus your Tolkien expertise and your attempt to show a Catholicism where Jesus loves the poor and Francis gives them alms — coupled with Jon’s ceaseless attempts to get basic healthcare for our great city’s 9/11 firefighters — gave us a rallying point when literally no one else would talk about issues on nighttime television.

But my generation’s interest flagged a bit when we heard you say statements like “all hail our Viacom overlords.” Mainly because Gen-X has this kind of irony that if they call out the evil, then it’s okay to participate. But maybe, in the end, that’s simply evidence of a seared conscience?

Our generation wants to move past mere cynical irony into a new kind of authority, one that isn’t based on bullying or profit. Divestment and deference appeal to us.

Well guess what? You don’t have Viacom overlords anymore. Or merger overlords. That ends in May 2026. You’re already fired. By David Ellison, no less.

So I appeal to the fire in the bones of the young Colbert. I appeal to the old windstorm in his lungs. I appeal that it might become a fresh wind and a fresh fire.

It is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.

— Jeremiah

I’m asking — respectfully, sir — that you take off the gloves, refill your veins with your old glacial ice, file your canines, and burn down the house with the prophetic ire you’ve stored up in you all these years.

Go full Amos critiquing rich women in their summer houses sipping mojitos. Do the Jesus in the temple thing. Turn into St. Francis putting his body on the line, protesting the crusades.

Become St. Lawrence who, after the death of Sixtus, the prefect of Rome demanded he turn over the riches of the Church. Lawrence asked for three days to gather the wealth. He hurried to give away as much of the Church’s property to the poor as possible to keep it from being seized.

On the third day, at the head of a small delegation, Lawrence presented himself to the prefect. When ordered to deliver the treasures of the Church, he presented the city's indigent, crippled, blind, and suffering, and declared that these were the true treasures of the Church:

"Here are the treasures of the church. You see, the church is truly rich, far richer than your emperor!"

The prefect was so angry that he had a great gridiron prepared with hot coals beneath it and had Lawrence placed on top. Lawrence's arms were dislocated and that he was roasted alive. After being cooked for a while, he said:

“Prefect: I'm well done on this side. Turn me over!”

Patron saint of comedians, that guy. Your patron saint, sir. Respectfully, sir, show your teeth and burn down the house.

with love, respect, and confidence,

Lancelot

( PS — I have in my possession a very old book I bought for you in a very old Oxford bookshop. DM me. )