The Ed Sullivan Theater has seen a lot of magic in its day—Beatles screaming, Elvis swiveling, David Letterman dropping from the rafters. But nothing quite prepared us for the quiet bombshell Stephen Colbert dropped this week, just days after the network handed him his walking papers. With nine months left on the clock before The Late Show fades to black, Colbert sat down for a raw, robe-clad confessional in GQ‘s Men of the Year issue and named the one guest he’s been dying—begging, really—to snag for a sit-down. It’s not a politician, not a rock star, not even that elusive Elon Musk he’s roasted a thousand times. No, the man who turned late-night into a weapon of witty resistance wants to chat with… a cat.

Yes, you read that right. Pop Leo, the tuxedo-clad feline sensation who’s been clawing his way into America’s heart via viral TikToks and a suspiciously well-timed book deal, is Colbert’s white whale. “I’ve got nine months left to make this happen,” Colbert told GQ, his voice a mix of mischief and melancholy, lounging poolside at the Chateau Marmont in Bob Evans shades and a plush bathrobe that screamed “end-of-an-era luxury.” “Pop Leo’s got more followers than half the senators I’ve skewered. And honestly? In this timeline? I think he’d have better stories.”

The room—okay, the internet—lost its collective mind. Because here’s the thing: In a year where late-night TV is circling the drain like a bad hangover, Colbert’s pick isn’t just quirky. It’s poetic. It’s the perfect capstone to a decade-plus run that’s been equal parts satire, therapy session, and survival guide for democracy’s dumpster fire. The Late Show ends not with a bang, but with a purr? Sign us up.

Let’s rewind the tape, because you can’t appreciate the absurdity without the context. Back in October, whispers turned to thunderclaps: CBS was pulling the plug on Colbert’s reign after the 2025-26 season. No dramatic finale announcement, no tearful Tonight Show-style handover. Just a polite memo about “evolving formats” and “shifting viewer habits.” Translation: Streaming killed the late-night star, and TikTok ate its homework. Colbert, ever the pro, took it like a champ—publicly, at least. “Surprised? Sure,” he admitted in the GQ sit-down, sipping something that looked suspiciously like a virgin Bloody Mary. “But I’ve got 200-something shows left. I’m gonna land this plane beautifully. Or at least with fewer crashes than the 2016 election.”

The interview, staged like a fever dream from a Wes Anderson set (poolside philosophizing? Check. Sunglasses hiding unshed tears? Double check), peeled back the Colbert curtain in a way we’ve rarely seen. He talked fatherhood (his triplets are now taller than him, a fact that clearly haunts his comedic soul). He dissected the loneliness of monologue-writing at 4 a.m., chain-smoking notecards like they’re going out of style. And yeah, he got real about the ax: “Late-night’s been my church, my confessional, my Colosseum. Ending it feels like… well, like burying a friend who’s still breathing.”

But amid the elegy, there it was—the spark. The guest list. Colbert’s been chasing icons since Day One: Obama dropping truth bombs, Swifties storming the stage, that unforgettable night when Lin-Manuel Miranda freestyled a Hamilton sequel on the spot. He’s interviewed presidents, punctured egos, and once had a marching band invade the studio for no reason other than “why not?” Yet, in his final lap, the dream? A cat. Not just any cat—Pop Leo, the black-and-white wonder who’s amassed 15 million followers by batting at laser pointers, napping in sunbeams, and occasionally “reviewing” human cuisine with judgmental side-eye. Leo’s memoir, Paws and Reflect: A Cat’s Guide to World Domination, hit shelves last month and debuted at No. 1 on the New York Times bestseller list (ghostwritten by a team of jealous millennials, naturally).

Why Leo? Colbert didn’t mince words. “Look, we’ve had our share of humans on this show—liars, lovers, lunatics. But Pop Leo? He’s pure. No agenda, no spin room. Just existential ennui and the occasional hairball. In a world that’s 24/7 chaos, interviewing a cat feels like… mercy.” He paused, cracking that trademark grin. “Plus, imagine the cold open: Me in a mouse costume, him judging my life choices. Ratings gold.”

The internet, predictably, erupted. #ColbertCatInterview trended harder than a solar eclipse, with memes flooding X: Photoshopped images of Leo in the guest chair, Colbert on all fours fetching toys, even a fake trailer for The Late Meow. Fans flooded CBS’s inbox with petitions (“Book the Cat or We Riot—with Yarn Bombs!”). TikTokers staged reenactments, complete with dubbed meows syncing to Colbert’s monologues. And Pop Leo’s humans? They teased a response video: the cat staring blankly at the camera, captioned, “Stephen who? Got treats?”

But beneath the fluff—and trust me, this story’s got more layers than a cat video compilation—there’s something profoundly Colbertian at play. For 10 years, The Late Show hasn’t just been laughs; it’s been a lifeline. Through Trumpian fever dreams, a pandemic that locked us all indoors, and enough election-night specials to qualify as a miniseries, Colbert turned the absurd into armor. He cried on air after Orlando. He roasted Supreme Court justices like overcooked steaks. And in quiet moments, like his post-January 6 plea for decency, he reminded us why we tune in: Not for escapism, but for clarity. For community. For the catharsis of seeing a bow-tied genius call bullshit on the powerful.

Naming Pop Leo as his swan-song scoop? It’s Colbert’s final mic drop—a reminder that joy can be simple, silly, and utterly subversive. In an era where interviews are scripted soundbites and guests dodge questions like landmines, chatting with a cat flips the script. No gotcha journalism needed; Leo’s got nine lives’ worth of wisdom in those green eyes. Would he discuss climate change? (Spoiler: By knocking over a recycling bin.) Foreign policy? (With a single, disdainful flick of the tail.) Or, in true Colbert fashion, the meaning of it all? Picture this: Stephen, leaning in earnestly. “Leo, what’s the secret to happiness?” Cut to the cat, mid-yawn: Zzz. Fade to commercial.

Of course, it’s not all purrs and playtime. The GQ piece hints at bigger plans post-Late Show. Colbert’s eyeing Broadway (a one-man Colbert Report: The Musical? Book us). He’s got a novel percolating—something about time-traveling Jesuits, because of course. And don’t sleep on the activism: His nonprofit, the Late Show Fund, has quietly funneled millions to arts education and mental health initiatives. “Nine months isn’t an ending,” he said, eyes twinkling behind those shades. “It’s a pivot. Or a pounce.”

As for Pop Leo? Sources close to the production (okay, a barista who overheard writers at lunch) say the ball’s rolling. Expect a segment where Colbert “translates” Leo’s body language into biting commentary on current events. (“The cat’s arched back? Clear signal that tariffs are trash.”) If it happens—and God, let it happen—it’ll be the send-off we deserve: Hilarious, heartfelt, and a little unhinged.

Stephen Colbert built a late-night empire on the edge of empathy and exasperation. Now, as the curtain calls, he’s handing the spotlight to a furball with better PR instincts than most politicians. It’s ridiculous. It’s revolutionary. It’s exactly what we’d expect from the man who’s spent a decade making us laugh so we don’t cry.

Nine months. Tick-tock, CBS. Get that cat in the chair. The internet—and a nation of night owls—demands it.