Read a Transcript of Jimmy Kimmel’s Monologue About Cleto Escobedo

Hours after revealing the death of Cleto Escobedo III on social media, Jimmy Kimmel opened ABC’s Jimmy Kimmel Live! Tuesday night with a funny, tender, and deeply human tribute to his lifelong friend and bandleader. A full transcript of his remarks, as they aired on November 11, 2025, follows below.

I just want to say… please, sit. We’ve been on the air for almost 23 years, and I’ve had to do some hard monologues along the way. But this one’s the hardest, because late last night, early this morning, we lost someone very special who was much too young to go, and I’d like to tell you about him, if you don’t mind.

In 1977, my family moved to Las Vegas. My parents sold our house in Brooklyn. We moved 3,000 miles across the country, and they bought a house in a subdivision of Las Vegas called Spring Valley. They bought one of these cookie-cutter tract homes in a neighborhood that had just been built. There was not a tree on the block when we moved in. It was stucco and dirt. And that is where I grew up, on Meadowlark Lane.

There was a boy who lived on my block. He lived across the street and two houses over. He was a little over a year older than me. His name was Cleto, but we all called him Junior. We called him Junior because his dad was Cleto too, even though he was the third—Cleto Valentine Escobedo III.

One day, I was riding my bike. I was wearing boxing gloves and my mother’s sunglasses and a headband. And Cleto watched me going down the street. Years later, he told me that the first time he saw me, he thought I was “special.” And I don’t mean special like, “This fella is special.” I mean like Special Olympics–type special. He saw me—poor, mentally unfortunate kid. Eventually we met and became friends. And not just regular friends. We became 24/7, “Mom, please let me sleep over, please” kind of friends. One summer, I slept over at the Escobedo house 33 nights in a row.

For real. My mother used to make me get down on my knees and beg to sleep at his house, in front of him. And I would gladly do it, because we were never bored. We were always up to something—Wiffle ball on the front lawn, Nerf football in the street. We dressed up as cowboys. We set fire to Hot Wheels. Cleto had a warped, second-hand pool table in his garage. We shot pool. We would box for hours in his backyard, in his bedroom—we definitely gave each other many concussions. We would cut off each other’s air supply and knock each other out for fun. We would stay up all night ordering pizzas to our neighbors’ houses and make crank calls. We’d record them with a little microphone attached to a suction cup so we could listen back. We made a rap album like the Beastie Boys—except very bad. We made up mean songs about our neighbors and friends. He’d play piano, I would sing along. His parents had a Betamax and HBO, which we would use to try to see naked people.

Cleto was very focused on sex from a young age. He knew everything about sex, and he taught me all of it. Now, half of everything he taught me was wrong—sometimes dangerously wrong. Like, he told me it was impossible to get a girl pregnant in a jacuzzi because hot water deactivated the sperm. And that, by the way, is incorrect. Don’t try that. But he knew a lot of stuff, and I wanted to hear all of it. Cleto lost his virginity when most kids are still eating pouches of Big League Chew. He was very cool. He wore his hair like John Travolta. He blow-dried it. He sometimes wore a tie to school just for the hell of it. He’d dress up. And so, then I wore a tie and blow-dried my hair like John Travolta’s sister, Ellen Travolta.

In Little League, Cleto played catcher, which he felt was the best position. So I played catcher. We would go to the gym sometimes. We were both very skinny. He would read these bodybuilder magazines. He wanted to be muscular—even though we were both built like Muppets. His favorite bodybuilder was Frank Zane. So he signed up for this crappy gym in Vegas called Camelot. Sometimes I would go with him. He would work out; I would lay on the imagine table with the rollers on it. Sometimes Siegfried from “Siegfried and Roy” would come into Camelot—which was one of the beautiful little miracles that happen when you grow up in Vegas. Siegfried would come in, he’d do 20 sit-ups, and then go sit in the hot tub for an hour. We could never figure out why this millionaire magician, who probably had a hot tub of his own, would want to be in a gross locker room in the suburbs of Las Vegas with a bunch of naked guys walking around. And then eventually, we figured it out: you can’t get pregnant in a hot tub.

Cleto taught me all the dirty things. He was so much fun. He was wild. It’s funny because, as an adult, he was not wild. He was a dad who liked to stay home. If we did go out, we’d go on a fishing trip. He never missed a day of work. But when we were kids, he was stealing fire extinguishers out of motels and shooting kites out of the sky with a shotgun on our block. Every weekend when we were in high school, we’d go out “carousing,” as we called it, with our friends Jimmy and Tommy. We’d just drive around and do dumb things and, inevitably, we’d end up in one of those giant, brightly lit Vegas adult novelty stores—the ones that sold sex toys and refrigerator magnets. And every time, I don’t know how he did it, every time we’d go to the store, we’d get in the car and out of nowhere he would pull out the largest rubber penis you’d ever seen in your life, each one bigger than the next.

One time my parents went away for the weekend. We had a party at my house. Cleto saw this as an opportunity to implement sex with his girlfriend. Cleto was very advanced, but also very careful. He wore two condoms just in case. He would layer his condoms. Unfortunately, he left a wrapper next to my parents’ bed, and of course my mother found it within seconds of coming home from vacation, which was big trouble. The sad thing is my parents came down with the Trojan wrapper. Not for one second did they think it was mine. They knew it was Cleto’s—which was insulting. They brought me into the kitchen. My mother held it up like the Eucharist. “Whose is this? Cleto’s?” And I had to admit it was Cleto’s. “Why was he in our bed? Why wouldn’t he at least do it in your bed?” And I had to explain he refused to do it in my room because I had a trundle bed, which is one of the beds you pull out from under another bed, and he didn’t want us to hear it squeak.

Cleto was at work when my parents confronted me about this, so I couldn’t call him to give him a heads-up. My dad wanted to talk to him about it, and my dad never talked to anyone about anything other than bowling and yard work. So I went into—he worked at a clothing store, Miller’s Outpost. Cleto was at the register. I said, “What’s the worst thing that could have happened?” He said without a second’s hesitation, “David Letterman died?” “Okay, what’s the second worst thing?” And he knew. I didn’t have to tell him. He knew he left a condom wrapper next to my parents’ bed. And then my dad talked to him, which was funny. My dad knew he couldn’t get him to stop having sex, so I think he made him promise to stop littering. I don’t know.

We had so many adventures. We would laugh so hard. We had our own language that almost no one else understood. We didn’t have to say anything. We’d sit here in rehearsal every day—we didn’t have to look at each other. I knew he was thinking about looking at me and I was thinking about looking at him. We’d look at each other like this, and that would be it.

We loved all the same things—baseball, fishing, Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Woody Allen, Michael McDonald, Stevie Wonder. And most of all, we loved David Letterman. We never missed David Letterman. The first time I was on the Letterman show was 1999. It was a really big deal for both of us. That afternoon, before the show, I was so nervous. I was walking in New York, just walking fast, trying to burn off my nervous energy, and I called him just so we could be amazed together that this was happening. It was an amazing thing.

Cleto was a phenomenal saxophone player. From a very young age, he was a child prodigy who would get standing ovations in junior high school, if you can imagine that. His dad was a sax player too. His dad was in a band, a successful band from Texas called Los Blues. But he gave up his career because he didn’t want to go on the road and be away from his son. He didn’t want to miss raising his son. So he quit being a musician in 1966 when Junior was born. He got a job as a busboy at Caesars Palace. Sammy Davis Jr. recognized him—he knew him from the band and felt bad seeing him bussing tables, so he called the guy who ran entertainment at Caesars and got him a job as his personal room-service butler. Which was a solid consolation for hanging up his horn, which he gladly did to be with his family—no regret or resentment.

So when Cleto Jr. became a professional musician, Cleto Sr. was thrilled. He got to live vicariously through his son. Junior started playing in bars and clubs and lounges in Las Vegas, and eventually he was spotted by a guy who worked for Paula Abdul. Paula Abdul was a huge star at the time, and she hired Cleto to sing and play sax on her tour. And then, when the tour was over, Paula Abdul signed him to a record deal. He made an album. We were all so excited about it—you know, we were still kids. And all of a sudden, he had an album. I went to Tower Records and bought it. But Cleto was never really a pop star. He was more of a serious musician. He loved jazz and R&B and a different kind of music than what the record company wanted from him. The album did not sell. So Cleto went back out on the road, with big artists—Luis Miguel, Marc Anthony, Philip Bailey. He did a lot of studio work. And for fun, he had a band he would play with here in town at local restaurants and bars.

And then one day in September 2002, I got a talk show—out of nowhere. I had a meeting with an executive at ABC named Lloyd Braun, who hired me to host this show. And when you do a show like this, you need a few things: you need a desk, you need an announcer, you need a Guillermo, and you need a band. And of course, I wanted Cleto to lead my band. We grew up watching Dave and Paul, and the idea that anyone other than him would lead the band was terrifying. It had to be him. I was so scared they would say no, and I’d have to have another band. I had to work up the nerve to even bring it up, because I knew “My best friend from growing up plays the saxophone—he could lead the band” didn’t sound good. But it had to happen. And not only did I want Cleto to lead the band, I wanted his dad to be in it.

So I pitched it to Lloyd. I said, “Okay, so the guy I have in mind is my best friend from childhood. But he’s really good. You have to see him.” And we set up an audition. Cleto had a regular gig at a restaurant in the Valley called Café Cordiale. I told him the plan. I said, “Call your dad, tell him to come out here and bring his sax.” Which, again, he hadn’t played professionally for—at that time—more than 30 years. “But don’t tell him this is an audition, because I know he’s going to get nervous.” So his dad came out from Vegas. He brought his sax. He lost the neck of his saxophone minutes before the gig. But he found it, and they played. And they were great. Cleto put together a great group of musicians, our band, the original lineup: Jeff Babko, Toshi Yanagi, Jimmy Earl, Jonathan Dresel, Cleto Sr.—some of the most talented musicians in the world. Cleto and his dad did a special song. They played “Pick Up the Pieces” by the Average White Band—two saxophones. Lloyd saw it. He saw the father and son. He said, “I love it!” And he got up and left. And we’ve been working together every day for almost 23 years.

When we told Cleto Sr. that he had the job, I said, “Hey, you’ve got to take a leave of absence from your room-service gig at Caesars Palace in case the show gets canceled and you have to go back.” He went in and took one leave of absence, and we were still on the air, took another one, and finally they said, “Cleto, you don’t work here anymore. You’re on TV now.” And so, he quit and never went back. I have often said that the single best thing about doing this show was getting the opportunity to allow Cleto Sr. to pick up where he left off in 1966 and become a musician again alongside his son.

Cleto Sr. and his wife Sylvia—Cleto’s mom—have been like my second parents since I was in the fourth grade. I’ve known them for 47 years. These people never once yelled at me. Not once. They are the best people. Sylvia comes to work here every day, sits in that seat, despite the fact that she does not work here. She does not have a job here. She comes and stays all day to be near her husband and son. She’s working those rosary beads in the audience every night. She’s probably halfway through a Hail Mary right now.

This is a very tight family. This is the kind of family that when they aren’t together, they call each other four times a day. It’s a small, tight family. And then, around 20 years ago, it got bigger. Cleto met a girl. Cleto met a lot of girls, but this girl was the one. She was working as a waitress across the street. Her name is Lori. She was from Minnesota. Cleto and Lori fell in love, they got married, and had two beautiful kids—Jesse and Cruz—whom Cleto loved so much. I hope I can remind them, as they grow up, how much he loved them. Because it is a lot.

Everyone loves Cleto. Everyone here at the show. We are devastated by this. It’s just not fair. He was the nicest, most humble, kind, and always funny person—and more than anything, more than anything, Cleto loved to show his ass to others. You’d turn around, look back, and there it was. His ass was just out. He loved to moon. He kept that tradition alive.

When we were kids, my mother would sometimes drive us to school. We had a big Chevy Impala station wagon. Cleto would quietly slip his pants down and moon people from the back of the car. His little brown ass pressed up against the window of my mom’s car, directly over the bumper sticker that said “The family that prays together, stays together.”

We had a lot of fun when we were kids—much of it at my expense. That’s me—he’s dumping freezing cold water on me in the shower. Cleto had a bicycle with a sidecar attached to it, welded to the frame. He called it “The Sidehack.” He would have me sit in the sidehack, and then drive me directly into garbage cans and bushes.

I’d sleep over, and when I’d wake up, he’d almost always be on the phone with a girlfriend. One morning, we’re in bed, both in our underwear. Cleto’s on the phone. He says, “Jim, will you go grab my glasses? I left them in the living room.” I said, “Is anyone home?” Because I was in my underwear. I didn’t want anybody to see me. He said, “No, nobody is home.” So I ran into the living room—and there are his grandparents sitting on the couch. I ran back. He was dying laughing.

Cleto was the leader growing up. I was the sidekick. He was the star. Cleto played the saxophone; I played clarinet. That’s kind of all you need to know about us. When I was a local DJ at a junky little radio station in Palm Springs, Cleto was onstage playing to 20,000 people. And then, a few years went by and our roles reversed. It was my show, with my name on everything. All of a sudden, I was the star. And a lot of people who have a huge amount of talent would have a problem with that. Cleto never did. Not a twinge of jealousy, envy, or passive-aggressiveness. None of that, ever. The opposite. He was proud of me. He loved me. He loved seeing me become successful. He loved being a part of it. He never took it for granted. He would call me and send me notes all the time—big stuff, little stuff—telling me, “Oh, this is so funny, I love this, I’m so proud of you, I’m so happy that we get to be together all the time.” He would tell me how lucky he was. He was just a great older brother. No baggage. All love.

There is no one in my life I felt more comfortable with. He was the godfather to my son Kevin. We were the best men at each other’s weddings. He threw me the worst bachelor party ever at his Uncle David’s apartment. Uncle David didn’t even have furniture. We sat on the floor with a 12-pack of warm beer and watched The Honeymooners. We watched the same three movies over and over and over again. It never was enough.

It’s just so strange. There were thousands of houses for sale in Vegas. My parents happened to buy one that was right across the street from this kid that I would just fit together with so perfectly. Maybe the most important thing Cleto ever taught me was that my relatives were funny. When I was a kid, my Aunt Chippy and Uncle Frank were always yelling at each other—mostly she was yelling at him—and I didn’t like it. One day he called me. He said, “Come over.” I said, “I can’t. My Aunt Chippy and Uncle Frank are coming for dinner.” And he said, “Can I come?” Which was weird, because we always slept over at his house. I said, “Why do you want to come over?” He said, “Oh, those two are hilarious.” And that night I watched him watching them and thought, “Oh yeah, they are hilarious.” And years later, they became a big part of this show—largely because of that.

When my Uncle Frank was sick—my Uncle Frank passed away—Cleto visited him in the hospital every day on his way home from work. Every day. It wasn’t even on his way home; it was out of the way. But he loved Uncle Frank, and Uncle Frank loved him. He used to say, “Junior, when you’re onstage, you sparkle. You sparkle.” Uncle Frank passed away in 2011 on August 23, which was Cleto’s birthday.

Early this morning, not long after midnight, Cleto passed away on what was Uncle Frank’s birthday—11/11, Veterans Day. And even though I am heartbroken to lose him, I am going to take yet another lesson from him and acknowledge how lucky I was to have him at my side for 48 years.

I want to thank the doctors and nurses at UCLA Medical Center for taking incredibly good care of him—particularly Dr. Fady Kaldas, Dr. Catherine Donat, Dr. Emily Schwitzer, Dr. Manuel Blanco, our friend Dr. Jake Lentz, and so many strong and caring nurses and technicians including Remy, Becca, Tess, Gigi, Brian, Michele, Andrew Baird—who works at UCLA. I’m sorry if I missed anyone. Thanks also to the team at Sherman Oaks Hospital that initially took him in. I am grateful for my friends, Cleto’s friends—Jimmy, Jeff, Fred, Toshi, Jonathan, Damon, Jenny, Jane, Guillermo, Micki, Rick, Debbie, Eric. Everyone who checked in on him, everyone who called and visited him. His great neighbors who have been helping his family. Everyone here at the show has been so supportive. My family, my wife Molly, Cleto’s wife Lori, his kids and Lori’s family who all did their best to be strong during these awful few months. And mostly, maybe, I want to thank Cleto’s parents, Cleto and Sylvia, for making him. For sharing him with me and with all of us. And for treating me like their own son always.

Cherish your friends. We’re not here forever. Thank you for indulging me. We’re going to take the next couple of nights off. But I wanted to be here tonight to tell you about my friend.

Also, Cleto loved Eddie Murphy a lot, and I don’t think he would have wanted us to miss this. And so, we will be back with Eddie Murphy.