Introduction
COLBERT SAID NO TO THIS BIT 4 TIMES. ON HIS FINAL WEEK, HE FINALLY SAID YES. That sentence alone sounds like the setup to a punchline, but in the closing days of The Late Show, it became something far more meaningful. What began as a strange, stubborn, almost ridiculous comedy idea turned into a surprisingly tender reminder of what late-night television has always been at its best: a place where nonsense, loyalty, history, music, and human affection can somehow meet under the same bright studio lights.
For years, writer Michael Cruz Kayne had carried around one particular rejected segment — “It’s Raining Fish,” a parody inspired by Paul Shaffer’s famous 1982 hit “It’s Raining Men.” On paper, it sounded wonderfully absurd: dancers, a full band, a fish-themed twist, and the kind of big theatrical silliness that could either collapse completely or become unforgettable. Stephen Colbert had reportedly turned it down again and again. Four times, the answer was no. And in the world of television, that usually means an idea is quietly buried forever.
But farewell weeks have a strange power. They make people sentimental. They loosen the grip of perfection. They allow room for the odd, the imperfect, the half-mad idea that somehow carries the spirit of everyone who worked behind the scenes. As The Late Show moved through its final four episodes, Colbert chose to dedicate Monday’s program to the “best of the worst” — the comedy bits that never reached the audience, the ideas too strange or too risky to survive the normal process.
Then came the moment no one expected. Paul Shaffer himself walked onto the stage. For older viewers who remember David Letterman’s long reign in that very building, Shaffer’s presence carried history with it. He was not merely a guest; he was a living bridge between eras of late-night television. When he sat in with the band and embraced the madness of “It’s Raining Fish,” the rejected parody suddenly became a tribute — not only to comedy, but to endurance, friendship, and the unseen work of writers who keep pitching even after hearing no.
What made the moment so moving was not that the bit was brilliant in a traditional sense. In fact, part of its charm was that it was proudly foolish. But by finally saying yes, Colbert gave his staff something rare: permission to celebrate the ideas that did not fit, the jokes that were too odd, and the people whose creativity had helped build the show night after night. Three episodes before the lights went dark, he let the room laugh at itself with affection.
That is why this performance landed differently. Beneath the fish costumes, the band, the parody, and the chaos was a quiet act of gratitude. Colbert did not simply air a rejected sketch. He opened the door for one last shared memory — the kind that a staff carries long after the cameras stop rolling.