Will Ferrell: You're Welcome America - A Final Night with George W Bush

Man: This is former commander to the Commander in Chief Dick Cheney

reminding you that there's no flash photography

and all cell phones, pagers, electronic devices

should be left on during the show

so they may be swept up in our broad,

yet semi-legal net of intelligence gathering.

Also, because I have awarded

a no-bid contact to Halliburton

to operate the restrooms,

toilet paper is now $15 a sheet.

Enjoy the show

and go fuck yourselves.

So you can come back and pick me up later?

Thank you.

That was weird.

When the pilots of Marine One said they were gonna

said they were gonna drop me off in New York City,

I thought they were joking.

I said sure.

You know, "While you're at it, why don't you drop me off in the faggy Theater District?"

And guess what? They did.

So, uh... so the joke's on me.

But let me be clear about something. I'm just kidding, okay?

I don't think theater's faggy.

Except for "Cats."

And "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change."

Yeah, that one's queer and Yiddish-y.

You know, if you want to treat yourself

to just a wonderful night out at the theater,

just an outstanding show about pride,

work ethic,

and values,

without any sort of gay agenda,

go see "Rent."

Laura and I must've seen that show no less than 80 times.

That's a little something from "Rent."

Yeah.

But we're not here tonight to sing show tunes.

We're here to remember

and cherish,

and celebrate my last eight years of service to you,

the fine citizens of this nation

because as of, what, about seven weeks ago,

I'm now "George W. Bush,

former President of the United States."

Thank you. That's very sweet of you.

That's totally unexpected.

No, it's nice. Yeah.

Hey, look, here's the deal. I can't deny what happened

seven weeks ago.

It happened.

It's the Inauguration.

It's the law.

And I'll be honest with you.

I'm a fan of the Tiger Woods guy.

I, uh...

I like him.

I like him. He seems like a smart guy.

He's a great speechmaker.

Every time he talks, it's like Shakespeare

having sex with a bottle of Courvoisier.

You know?

His words just wash over you

like hot butterscotch pudding, you know?

It's just like...

"Don't stop." You know?

But tonight's about me, okay?

This is my farewell, and...

sure, it's a bit melancholy.

But with every ending there are new beginnings,

much the same way the break-up of the Beatles

gave us a far superior band in Wings...

or the end of "Friends"

gave us "Joey."

Did you just roll your eyes at me?

You right there in the second row, you just roll your eyes at me?

Man: This is the third row. No, I can count.

It's the second row.

See, in the theater the third row is called the second row.

That's how they do it.

Tell you right now you'd better wipe that smirk off your face, okay?

I'll have you removed.

It's not a big deal.

You're probably from "The New York Times." You from "The New York Times"?

No.

Are you Paul Krug?

No.

Are you Thomas J. Friedman?

Are you Maureen O'Dowd?

No. No, I'm not a woman.

You're not a woman? Is that what you said? No.

You a comedian? Are you like a funny guy?

Are you Sinbad?

Are you Penn and Teller?

Watch yourself, okay?

"New York Times." Give me a break.

Let us pray.

Dear Lord Jesus Christ...

and by "Jesus Christ," I'm referring to blond, good-looking,

lightly-bearded or clean-shaven Jesus Christ.

Not hippie-looking Jesus,

or swarthy, more- middle-eastern-looking Jesus...

who's probably more historically accurate--

not that guy.

So dear clean-shaven or...

lightly-beared- like-Mike-Piazza Jesus...

we give thanks to you and to everything you do.

Your love and acceptance washes over all of us

like the warm healing waters

of one of those European toilets that cleans the inside and out.

I believe it's called a "bidett."

Dear blond...

almost-Swiss-looking Jesus,

we ask you to allow us to accept everyone in this theater tonight,

regardless of their religious beliefs

whether it be Muslim or Hindu

or Jewish or witchcraft.

Dear sweet-smelling -of-lavender-

and-Dial-soap Jesus,

bring us together tonight in solidarity,

and not "separatude."

Dear life-of-the-party, always-with-a-funny-joke Jesus,

walking around in a cool pair of Crocs,

holding a can of Diet Slice,

making people wonder at the party,

"Wait, is there Diet Slice at the party?"

"No, Jesus brought his own."

"Oh, 'cause I would really love some Diet Slice."

"Well, don't talk to me. Talk to Jesus.

"Seriously, don't embarrass me in front of Jesus.

"It took him a lot to come to my party.

"So don't bug him.

"Great. Now he left. Way to go, man.

He took his Diet Slice with him."

That Jesus.

Once again, we thank you for everything you do,

and want to remind everyone in this theater

that by participating in this prayer,

they have automatically accepted Jesus Christ as their lord and savior,

regardless of their religious beliefs,

they cannot get out of it no matter what,

retroactive as soon as I say "Amen." Amen.

So after eight years, this crazy ride's over.

Can I be honest with you?

I feel as free as balls in boxers.

Yeah.

I can now do anything I want.

Hell, I might even have a beer tonight.

Or better yet, smoke a joint.

Or a "spleef" as they say in the hip-hop community

Yeah.

Put on a little Common...

or Nas. Yeah.

Hell, I'm such a wild card right now,

I might even show a picture of my penis.

Throw my penis up there. Go ahead, do it.

Throw it up there. Come on, now.

That's how unpredictable I am.

If you're sitting there and you think it didn't happen,

or it was maybe a mirage,

I'll do it again. Do it again!

Throw it up there again.

That's what you call "shock and awe" right there.

That's my stimulus package.

That one doesn't cost you 800 bajillion-

billion-jillion- Monopoly money dollars.

I asked my Secret Service guy there, Jerry,

to score me some sticky green buds tonight

and this is what he delivered.

It's called "Panamanian Devil's Crotch."

So you know it's good.

You know what else I found out?

I get Secret Service detail for the next 10 years.

So for the next 10 years, I get a guy like Jerry

right here at my beck and call.

Go ahead, bones it out.

Believe me, that's a bromance in the making right there.

Clapping for the bromance. I love it.

So for the next 10 years,

Secret Service has to do anything I want.

For instance, if I'm at a Reba McEntire concert...

and I'm too tired to walk back to the car,

Secret Service has to, by law,

carry me piggyback

back to the parking lot.

Or if I decide to get a tattoo on my back

of that scary-looking Jewish character

from all the "Lord of the Rings" movies...

What's his name?

Skinny little Jewish guy, what's his name?

Gollum. Gollum. Yeah.

Gollum. If I decide to get a tattoo of Gollum on my back...

which I've threatened to do countless times, yeah...

and I don't got the money on me,

Secret Service has to spot me.

And by "spot me," I mean,

"give me the money that I will forget to pay back."

This is all paid for by you, the taxpayers.

Don't get mad at me. I'm just benefiting from the system

that's already in place.