The Best 19 Comedic Monologues For Teenage Boys
1. Spacebar: A Broadway Play
A monologue from the play by Kyle Sugarman & Michael Mitnick
Kyle has written a play which he thinks is a sure-fire hit. He is sending it off to “Broadway.” This is his cover letter.
Dear Broadway. My name is Kyle Sugarman. It is such a pleasure to meet you. I am currently a sophomore at Harold Ferguson Senior High School just outside Fort Collins, Colorado.
Home of the Mighty Panthers. I am an honors student. I have a three-six. I am also the playwriter of my enclosed play which I am enclosing here to send to you.
(He reaches into a plastic bag and pulls out a thick script. He smiles at the audience. He tosses the script onto the floor where it lands with a BANG. The script should be 350-502 pages. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “Impressive, huh?”)
My play is named Spacebar. I am basically positive that you will find Spacebar to be the best play you’ve ever read. Spacebar is a story about HUMANITY.
I am 16 and don’t have an agent yet, but I ask that you please consider Spacebar like it was written by some of my favorite playwriters that do have incredible agents, like Neil Labute or Shakespeare.
My drama teacher, Mr. Ramirez, told me that I should include a brief description of my play in the cover letter which is what I’m about to do after this colon: (He pauses to indicate the colon.)
Let me clear something up right off the bat: Spacebar is not about the space key on the computer keyboard. Spacebar is about a bar in outer space.
AND. It takes place in the year nine-thousand-and-three. That’s right, Broadway, it’s set in the FUTURE.
You may be wonder- ing how I, Kyle Sugarman, know what the world will be like in the year ninethousand-and—three. And the truth is: I don’t.
And this is definitely something Mr. Ramirez and I wrestled with. That’s why I decided (and Mr. Ramirez agreed) that it would be a good idea to set Spacebar at a specific time in the Waaaaay Future.
A time that will make this play completely produceable for the next roughly seven thousand years. And I am not bragging. Sophocles wrote 2,000 years ago and we’re still doing his dumb**s boring plays.
You’ll see that I attached my business card— (He holds up a business card.) Kyle Sugarman, Playwriter It has my personal home phone.
If a woman answers, it’s just my secretary. JK, Broadway. It’s my Mom. So, yeah, take a look when you have a chance. Give it a little looksee.
I’ll just be here in Fort Collins, Colorado. Waiting. Sincerely and best, Kyle Sugarman PS—Spacebar is copyrighted so don’t try any funny business!
A monologue from the play by Lindsay Price
BLAKE starts off with his arms folded, looking off to the side. His girlfriend is talking nonstop. He tries to say something, no dice. He tries to get her attention.
No dice. He turns to the front.
I think I have to break up with Brittney. We don’t have anything in common. Sometimes, I can’t even hear what she’s saying. It all just runs together, (toward her) blah, blah, blah, like wet gravy and cranberry sauce.
(out to front) I know gravy is normally wet, you don’t eat dry gravy. But if the consistency is overly runny ‘cause Jimmy likes runny gravy and you don’t make a big enough well in your mashed potatoes the gravy just runs all over your plate right into the cranberries.
It looks like a crime scene. I don’t like eating a crime…
He trails off. There’s a look of horror on his face. He whips his head to the side and then whips his head to the front.
She stopped talking. (he whips his head to the side and then whips his head to the front) When did she stop talking? What did she say? Did she ask me a question?
I have to say something, otherwise it’ll look like I haven’t been listening. Even though I haven’t been listening. How long has it been?
Are we just staring at each other? Say something, anything! (He takes a breath, turns to his girlfriend and smiles. He speaks very tentatively) Yes…?
I am…? (with slow horror) Celine Dion here we come? (calling after) Wait! (runs after her).
A monologue from the play by Steven Haworth
Virgil’s fifteen-year old white girlfriend ran away from her home in Westchester and was murdered, Virgil is accused, but Whitney’s mother is convinced of his innocence
and bails him out of jail so he can give her a tour of the life her daughter lived before she died. Here Virgil tells the story of how he met Whitney, who he knew as Blue.
Virgil (sixteen, African-American)
Check it out. I’m on the One train. Back in May. Goin’ downtown. Morning rush hour. Some train went out a service so Number One is packed tight.
All the suits is miserable. I say suits ‘cause when I say downtown I mean everybody going to Wall Street. We pull into Franklin Street station.
Doors stop in front a this white dude. Pinstripe suit. Gold watch. Briefcase. Like in his thirties. He is like aaarrrgh! He need to get on that train!
Nobody gets off. Now way nobody gettin’ on. He ain’t just put out. He is like a straight up exploding brain! He got to get to Wall Street or his life is over!
So what does he do? Reaches out. Pulls a young lady off the train. Gets in her spot. This shorty little white rabbit on her way to Wall Street.
Yellow blouse. Pearls around her neck. Short blonde hair tucked around big ears with a little pink nose. Little White Rabbit standing on the platform.
She can’t believe it. People on the train they can’t believe it. Doors jerkin’ tryin’ to close. Pinstripe Dude holding his briefcase to his chest.
Squeezin’ his eyes shut please God let the doors close! Then I see. Right there. This pretty little white girl with blue hair. Now who is this white girl with blue hair, Mrs. Wing?
That’s right, it’s Blue, Mrs. Wing. But I ain’t know her yet so I’m a call her Blue-headed White Girl. Blueheaded White Girl got her hands on the door and won’t let it close!
Pinstripe Dude lookin’ at her like “What you doin’, b*tch!” But she won’t let the doors close. So the doors open up again. What does she do?! SHE TRIES TO PUSH HIM OFF THE TRAIN!
She tryin’ to push this Pinstripe Motherf***er right out the door! I am like damn! But she can’t budge him. He like twice her size. So I say to myself “V?! THIS A MOMENT A TRUTH, N**GA!
You gonna let this little white girl lose this battle?! Lose this battle against Pinstripe Muthaf***a Tyrannical Bulls**t?! And do you know what the answer was, Mrs Wing?
The answer was NO! Hell no! I take Pinstripe Motherf***er up by the collar! I throw that Pinstripe Motherf***er off the train! I’m like “Get off the train, Pinstripe motherf***er!”
I grab little White Rabbit, pull her back on the train. Point at Pinstripe Motherf***er, I’m like “Stay there, motherf***er.” Blue-headed White Girl is like “Yeah, motherf***er!”
So there’s Pinstripe Motherf***er. Standing on the platform. Mouth hangin’ open. Soul gone. Cryin’ like a b*tch! Blueheaded White Girl lets go the door. Train start to move.
And the whole subway car – BURSTS INTO APPLAUSE! I look at my new friend. I say, “Hey! I’m V!” She’s like: “I’m Blue.” I say, “Really? ‘Cause you look happy.”
She’s like: “No, ‘cause a my hair, stupid.” I’m like, “I know I’m just playin’.” She’s like, “Oh okay.” And that’s how I met Blue!
4. Puffs, Or Seven Increasingly Eventful Years At A Certain School Of Magic And Magic
A monologue from the play by Matt Cox
I’m going to ask an uncomfortable question right now. I ask for an honest response. Where are my shoes? I’ve been back three years, and three years – barefooted.
No one has offered me a pair of sneakers, or some lounge loafers. Wingtips. At first, I thought oh – maybe this is the fashion – but quickly learned – no – that’s not it.
One year later, my little piggies are still out for all to see – it became about the principle of the matter – I’m the Dark Lord.
Surely someone will offer me some shoes. Or at least ask if I’m comfortable. But now; we are in the woods. We’ve spent a whole evening outdoors.
My feet are wet – I’ve stepped on several pointy rocks – I may need a tetanus shot. So, no. I am not comfortable. So where are my – what?
The megaphone is still on? Really? Oh my. I am just having a day, aren’t I? YAH! Harry!
5. A Seagull In The Hamptons
A monologue from the play by Emily Mann
ALEX ’s mother is a Famous Actress—a fact that he ﬁnds inﬁnitely oppressive—particularly as he detests the theater . . . well, the kind of theater his mother loves. Here, he tells this to his uncle, his mother’s brother.
My mother hates me. I’m nineteen years old and a constant reminder to her that she’s not thirty-two. Her whole life is the “theatuh!” And she knows I hate the theater.
Not pure theater. I don’t hate that. I hate her kind of theater! It’s so fake! People marching around pretending like they’re in some living room.
I mean, all they do is talk and they’re boring and pathetic and old . . . and they have nothing to say. I mean, who cares, really?
The world is falling apart, or worse, the planet is dying! And these people go to the theater to be entertained by people who are just like them—or even worse, more clueless than they are!
And because the producers are so concerned about not oﬀending anybody while they pay their one hundred f***ing dollars, there is nothing controversial or worthwhile going on.
Unless, of course, it’s from England! Then, of course, like good colonialists we bow down to their British accents—anything in British accents makes Americans feel inferior, especially in the theater —
and we say it’s brilliant, even when it’s just— pretentious crap or little dramas with tiny little morals posing as great art—or those f***ing cheerful musicals!
Oh my God! I don’t know. The whole New York theater scene makes me sick. We have to have a new kind of theater, that’s all.
Something vibrant, and young, and dangerous, and alive or, you know what? Just have nothing at all! Why do we have to have theater ?
I mean, I love my mother but she leads such—a stupid life! She dedicates every waking hour to something that just doesn’t matter!
And you can imagine how utterly revolting it feels to be me! Here I am at all her stupid parties full of celebrities and people who have all won prizes for something or other—you know, it’s ridiculous!
Pulitzers and Nobels, and book awards, and Oscars and Tonys and all that crap and here I am! I have nothing to say for myself;
I can’t even understand what they’re talking about half the time; and they’re all wondering how Maria could have spawned such a pathetic little loser.
6. Dontrell, Who Kissed The Sea
A monologue from the play by Nathan Alan Davis
Listen, people gonna do what they do. ’Specially your brother. You were prolly too young to remember this. I was ﬁve. So D was four. And we’re playin’ Power Rangers.
We’ve created this epic wild-animal gladiator battle-type scenario, and it’s getting kind of intense—so we’re on a break. And we’re knockin’ back some KoolAids and whatnot, and allasudden he leans over all secretive and he’s like “I’m going to the zoo tomorrow.”
And I’m thinkin’—cool. We goin’ to the zoo tomorrow —’cause you know how I do: I don’t like to miss events. So I clear my schedule for the next day.
And when I come over here in the morning your mom answers the door and she calls for D, and he doesn’t come. And I say, “He’s not still sleeping is he?
We gotta get to the zoo.” And your mom looks at me like “zoo?” And I walk with her back to D’s room and that little baller has bounced.
I’m sayin’ like Kunta Kinte bounced. Forreal. Got up all early, put some miles behind him before the sun came up, this kid was not playin’.
And he was actually going the right direction, too, is the crazy thing.
’Cause when the cops ﬁnally ﬁnd him he’s like on the r oute . But I just remember waiting … right here. Lookin’ at the door. Terriﬁed.
’Cause, to me at the time, the dangerous thing about going to the zoo without a grownup was one of the animals would eat you.
So I’ve got these visions of D like, standing at the snack shop tryna buy a ﬁve dollar hotdog and then a bear tackles him and it’s over, and I don’t have a best friend anymore, you know?
And as far as my ﬁve-year-old brain is concerned the probability of that happening is like 95% so I’m basically in mourning—and then the door opens and it’s your mom and she’s got D in her arms and he’s lookin’ straight up pissed.
He’s lookin’ grown man angry. ’Cause he wasn’t ﬁnished with his business. Knowhatimsayin’, and your mom is just crying and crying ’cause, you know she thought she had lost her baby …
And the only thing I could think was: Dontrell’s invincible. He wrestled the bear and he won. And he doesn’t even have a scratch.
And I’ve never doubted him and I’ve never worried about him ever since. That’s on the real.
7. Peter And The Starcatcher
A monologue from the play by Rick Elice (based on the book by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson)
Wait a minute, wait a minute, I’m the leader, and I say we got some things. The leader has to be boy. It doesn’t matter how old you are!
This is Ted, but I call him Tubby, ‘cuz he’s food obsessed.
(to Ted) Yeah, you are! D’you write poems about pie? Hide beans in your blanket? Faint at the merest whisper of—(to Molly) get this— (back to Ted) sticky pudding? (watches Ted faint at the sound)
Like I said, food obsessed. I’m Prentiss. I’m in charge here. Don’t take him (about boy) personally. He’s rude to everybody. It’s why he gets beatings and why he’s got no friends.
He doesn’t have a name. Been orphan’d too long to remember. Grempkin calls him. . . mule! (laughs cruelly then grabs his stomach in hunger)
(to Molly) Ok, You can be like temporary leader—but only ‘til we eat.
A monologue from the play by Don Goodrum
High school student Charlie Porter is the fragile star of Jezebel’s Last Chance and has just found out that Bonnie, his long-time friend and co-star, is not going to make that night’s performance.
To make things worse, she is being replaced by Camille Curry, an unforgiving actress who has no patience with Charlie’s sensitive nature.
(Almost hysterical, crosses to Tony and grabs him by the shoulders.) Anthony, you have to help me! What am I going to do? Bonnie, my dear sweet Bonnie who would never hurt a fly has abandoned me,
cast me aside like an old doll—! My lines, Anthony! You know how I am in a play, flying along one moment, focused with the razor-sharp intensity of a laser and then poof!
One errant down draft and I’m cast out of the nest, falling into a spiral of —Bonnie used to help me, Anthony! She knew that my mind could betray me like snow on a hot sidewalk, and so, with that phenomenal memory of hers,
she would memorize my lines as well as her own and feed mine to me under her breath whenever tragedy would strike! Not that I would need it often, of course-but the idea of her,
the security of her, waiting there, ready to lift me up and help me to fly—
9. Hurt Village
A monologue from the play by Katori Hall
Skillet tells Ebony, the neighborhood comedian and smalltime doughboy, about a money-making plan he’s come up with. He speaks very slowly.
Skillet (late teens to early twenties, African-American)
You know how weed make you forget; I forgot. Speakina’ which, I forgot to tell you. This n**gah down by the Pyramid gone axe me, which one I rather have. P***y or weed?
I say, “N**ggah? Now what kind of question is that?” I’m the type a n**gah, can’t live without neither, but I much rather have some weed than some p***sy.
P***y and weed . . . got some similarities. P***y and weed taste good when they wet. they both . . . got a distinct smell. They both can have you happy and give you the munchies til six o’clock in the morning.
They both can burn ya’ if you get too close to the tip. They both can turn yo’ lips black, you suck on it too much. See, I likes em’ both, but p***y leave you.
Weed don’t care nothin’ ‘bout yo’ job, yo’ credit or yo’ car. Weed’ll chill witcha . . . anywhere and nowhere. Make everything real . . . slow . . . motion like.
P***y speed sh*t up: the decreasement of the gas in yo tank, yo’ bank account, and yo . . . beloved weed. Hell muthaf***in yeah! That’s my next ‘speriment. I can make p***y-smellin’ weed!
I’m on a marketing grind: “P***y weed.” N**gahs’ll eat that sh*t up, you know what I’m sayin’?
“Gotta make that money, cuz I gotta get my own place Can’t stay wit’ my cousin no mo. Gotta go. Gotta go I stay high on the ya-yo. Jump the boogie Woulja puff puff pass that p***y to me.”
That was brilliant. I’ma have ta record that Triple Six Mafia could use that verse.
10. Stupid Is Just 4 2Day
A monologue from the play by Lindsay Price
Trombone (young male)
So I’m standing in front of the whole school. It’s some world environment, world recycling, some kind of save the world kind of day. I’m supposed to read a poem.
A save the world poem. I really hate save the world poems. The only reason I’m in the Environment Club to start with is because my parents said, “Join more clubs.
You’ll get into a better school if you look like you’re well-rounded.”
They didn’t say I was well-rounded. I just have to look like I am. So, whatever. I’m in the Environment Club, but I hate the people in the Environment Club.
They’re very serious about the environment. It’s not a fun club. It’s very much a “the earth is dying” kind of club. Every day the earth is dying.
Every day. Which I know, we should be concerned about the earth. But couldn’t we be concerned AND eat pizza at the same time? Every once in a while?
But I’m a trooper. No one can say I don’t troop. So I start reading the stupid save the world poem. And I can see my friends out of the corner of my eye, off to the side. Laughing.
I try to turn so I can’t see them. But I still hear them. I don’t want to be laughed at because my parents made me join the Environment Club. So I fart. Loudly.
Right in the middle of the poem. Right in the middle of the assembly. It’s a spectacular fart. One of my best. (pause) I’m not in the Environment Club any more.
Get the full play at theatrefolk.
11. The Hunchback of Seville
A monologue from the play by Charise Castro Smith
Columbus has just landed in the new world and here addresses his crew and the audience.
Christopher Columbus (any age)
My name is Christopher Columbus And I claim this whole entire land-place that you all people see here before you and which we can legally term ‘The West Indies’
Since we obviously did our goal and got to India in the name of Spain and all its subsequent domicilios, provinces and corporations.
These are the true feelings I carried within my heart-breast on this most momentous moment in world universal history:
My name is Cristoforo Colombo and I claim this whole entire land-place (which I will call it this in my mind only because my benefactors are papists and look disagreeably on foul languages, okay.
And also because I was supposed to be locating India but instead I happened to make us come to) THE NEW F***ING WORLD in the name of me me me Cristoforo Colombo!!
And I hereby wish my máma was here to see this because she would be really proud of me and also let it hereby be known that although the repercussions and enormity of this discovery are yet unbeknownst to my conscious mind,
deep in the eaves of my brain I know, oh bambino do I ever know that I have found something here on these virginish shores which will prove even more alluring than, indeed, all the perfumes and spices of Araby.
And to every small person in Genoa who looked at me and said: ‘Ooooh! Cristoforo Colombo is a poopy little kid who works at his daddy’s cheese stand and is largely self-educated
and misinterpreted much of what he read as modern historians have pointed out from the notes he made in the margins of his copy of ‘The Travels of Marco Polo’ and also he poops his pants!’
And to everybody back in Europe who dares to think in private or utter in public: ‘I think privately and say publicly that there is a compelling body of evidence that Christopher Columbus did not actually reach India like he said he did
because according to widely accepted calculations of how big the actual earth is, there is no way that a boat during our times could go so fast that it would reach India without them running out of provisions and starving to death…’
And to everybody in the modern days whose like: ‘You are a backwards imperialist douchebag with an overinflated ego and also you are responsible largely for one of history’s most horrible genocides’ I say:
‘Do YOU have a holiday named after you in the United States of America 505 years after your death?’ Okay, so guess who is famous and guess who is not.
12. THE TROUBLE WITH CASHEWS
A monologue from the play by David MacGregor
At a family gathering, Paul vents to his sister Tara as he watches their Aunt Dorothy eat from a bowl of assorted nuts and realizes that humanity is doomed.
Just look…right over there. What do you see? Just watch her… there! She did it again! What, do you think I’m losing my mind? I know it’s an old woman, sitting at a table, drinking a glass of wine, and eating some nuts from a bowl.
Anyone can see that. But look more closely. Watch when she goes for a nut. And…she did it again! Seriously? You don’t see it? Okay, let me ask you something. What’s in that bowl?
Nuts. Now, what kind of nuts? Assorted nuts. You get me? Please tell me you’re beginning to understand … there! Did you see that? She’s only eating the cashews! That bowl is full of assorted nuts.
So, what does that typically mean? It means there’s peanuts, almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts, and cashews. Does that sound about right? Now, is it just a random assortment?
Equal amounts of every nut? No! It’s mostly peanuts. Now, why would that be? Listen, I know you’re not some kind of nut expert, but it means that peanuts must be the easiest to grow and the cheapest to harvest and people like them less than other nuts.
Of all the nuts in that bowl, what kind of nut do people like the most? Cashews. Aunt Dorothy is deliberately eating only the most expensive and tastiest nuts. And the worst part?
She knows what she’s doing. That’s why she keeps looking around to see if anyone is watching. It would be one thing if she was so out of it that she was only eating the nuts she liked best, you know, like a chimp or something.
But she knows what she’s doing. And it would be okay if it was just Aunt Dorothy eating all of the cashews at a family party, but there are plenty of people out there in the world just like her.
People who not only want their fair share, they want everyone else’s share too. In fact, do you know what we’re witnessing here? The end of humanity.
The total and complete destruction of human beings as a species. It may be just a bowl of nuts to you, but we are doomed. Completely and utterly doomed.
13. From Up Here
A monologue from the play by Liz Flahive
Charlie has a big crush on Lauren, and after singing her a song, he delivers a quick-paced comic monologue revealing his feelings for her.
I wrote you that song. I wrote it because when I see you, normally, it’s just, it’s just a mess. When I think about you I can’t breathe and I look at you and I’m not sure you’re real. You just look like…
Like if someone were to say, Hey can you draw a girl and I drew you they’d be like, hey, that’s a perfect drawing of a girl, you’re a real good artist.
And my hands get all shaky when I want to touch you and you know that great hollow feeling you get in your stomach when you see someone you’ve been thinking about for days and then you turn the corner and there they are.
And it’s like… (he exhales all the air in his lungs until the breath just stops) And the bottom drops out and I feel like I have no actual mass or dimension and it’s like maybe I’m seeing you at that moment after having thought about you because you were,
at the same time, thinking about me. And that’s how we ended up at the exact same place in the exact same moment. By thinking about it that much. Do you need a ride?
14. When January Feels Like Summer
A monologue from the play by Cori Thomas
18, African American JERON is speaking to his best friend, DEVAUN, age 19, also African American. JERON is very smart, but shy when it comes to talking to women—the opposite of DEVAUN, who is a womanizer but articulation challenged.
JERON I dial. She answer. I say, “Hi, is this Larissa Shang?” And that’s another thing, that name you gave me is wrong. Larrisa Shang don’t sound like Lucy Ming, Devaun. The woman’s name is Lucy.
So the sh*t was confusing right there at the jump point. She say, “Who?” I tell her I got the number from you. She say, “Yeh?” I say, “Yeh.” She say, “My name is Lucy.”
I say, “Oh.” I want to punch you in your mouth right then. She ax me how it feel to be on TV? I say, “It aiight.” Then I hear some quiet silence so that I can hear her breathe over the phone.
But I remember how you said to keep talkin’ and put your interests up front and sh*t. So I ax her forcefully if she want to git wit me. She silent. I repeat it, “Do you want to git wit me?”
She silent again. I repeat it a third time. “Do you want to git wit me?” That’s when she say, “What do you mean?” So I say, “What do you mean, what do I mean?” She say, “What. do. You. mean?”
In a real nasty tone, in a low-voice sound almost like a man. So I say, “I mean git wit me. To git. wit. me. Git it? You know about that right?
If your Moms and Pops ain’t git together, you and all human beings might not be born. ”So I repeat it one more time, ’cause I don’t know if maybe she don’t speak English good or she slow, I say, “Do. You. Want. To. Git. Wit. Me?”
That’s when Lucy Ming scream, “I’MA SEND SOMEONE TO F*** YOU UP!” in my ear so loud it vibrate like a bell was ringing inside my head.
But I say to myself, well, at least I know she understand me. Sh*t! But instead, she hang the muthaf***in’ phone up on me. And when I call back, she hang up soon as I said “Hello.”
And this right here is why I don’t like to do this sh*t. Like callin’ muthaf***in’ punk a** wimmin and havin’ to speak to them so they can talk so loud in your ears and sh*t.
Auno how you can think it’s worth it to have so many girlfriends and what have you. Who want to git wit a woman can scream so loud anyway.
I say, give me my own money, give me my own time.
Wimmin is stupid. Some of em git pregnant and you gotta spend alla your lil money on Pampers. Then some of em want for you to pay for them to do they nails every week and sh*t.
Why I want to spend my money on they nails? For what? I got more important things in the world to think about. I don’t need to be talkin’ on no phone to no stupid a** punk a** Lucy Ming.
That’s on you, telling me some lie on her. That girl ain’t interested in me. And you made me call her like a damn stupid a** fool. I oughta whup you, Devaun.
I oughta whup your f***in’ a**.
15. The Servant of Two Masters
A monologue translated/adapted by Bonnie J. Monte from the original play by Carlo Goldoni
Hanging around street corners, waiting for your master, is the most boring task in the world. Not only am I bored stiff, I’m faint with hunger. We pulled into town at noon – meal time!
A half hour went by, then another, then another and then my stomach started to talk to me. He’s not happy. The first thing most normal people do when they arrive in a new city is seek lodging and food!
Then, they sit and eat the food! Not my master. He’s got me hauling luggage, stopping at people’s houses to deliver messages, running up stairs and down stairs and now this!
Boredom and starvation. I need to talk to him about the proper care and feeding of servants. I’d be happy to serve him with love and devotion, but he’s making it very hard.
Here’s an inn; I could pop in for a little snack, but with my luck, that’s just when he’d show up looking for me. Besides, I have no money.
I have nothing. I’m dying of hunger for that devil of a man, and for what? Poor Truffaldino!
16. The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time
A monologue from the play by Simon Stephens
I’ve decided I am going to try and ﬁnd out who killed Wellington because a Good Day is a day for projects and planning things.
Wellington is a dog that used to belong to my neighbor Mrs. Shears who is our friend but he is dead now because someone killed him by putting a garden fork through him.
And I found him and then a policeman thought I’d killed him but I hadn’t and then he tried to touch me so I hit him and then I had to go to the police station.
And I am going to ﬁnd out who really killed Wellington and make it a project. Even though Father told me not to. I don’t always do what I’m told.
Because when people tell you what to do it is usually confusing and does not make sense. For example people often say ‘Be quiet’ but they don’t tell you how long to be quiet for.
17. The Best Secret Santa Present Ever In The History of Peckinpaw High School
A monologue from the play by Ira Gamerman
(Direct Address) I spent the next two weeks seeking out Chrissy Summerfit and asking her every conceivable question that popped into my mind.
What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite article of clothing? Body part? Facial Feature? Childhood stuffed animal? What are your parents like?
Where do you see yourself in 5 years? What are your feelings on Israeli Palestinian Conflict? Stem Cell Research? The probability of life on other planets?
The existence of a higher being? And with every question I felt like I was floundering.
Like I was wearing some giant neon beacon that was practically screaming “I AM YOUR SECRET SANTA! PLEASE LOVE ME!!!!!!” And then just when I was about to give up, it STRUCK ME.
Out of absolutely nowhere. And suddenly, A million puzzle pieces of random information came together and formed a coherent picture of a three dimensional human-being.
18. NO ONE LOVES US HERE
A monologue from the play by Ross Howard
Washington has been staying with the Beaumonts these last couple of weeks. He has just killed Mrs. Beaumont’s father during the wake for Mr. Beaumont’s mistress, who he has also killed.
With all now revealed and being pressured to leave, Washington explains himself to Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont.
Washington (nineteen, Native-American)
You both may look at me in your lives right now with, I don’t know, some suspicion . . .and Mr. Beaumont, with no doubt, some regret, but by no means . . . to my coming here, could anyone describe your marriage as healthy.
I’m doing all this for you Mrs. Beaumont. In you, I saw a beautiful flower surrounded by nothing but disease. As a keen pruner yourself, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.
Mrs. Beaumont, you’re the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Ever since you first came into the video store, I’ve been obsessed with you.
You would come in regularly, and for the twenty-four hours or so after those times you came in, I was unable to either sleep or eat.
I took more shifts, came in to help when I didn’t have a shift, and sometimes I would just go there to hang out because I didn’t ever want to miss you.
I always had access to your address but it was only when you started to come into the store less and less that I decided to come here. It was just making me crazy. My mind was racing.
“Have they switched to an online service?”, “Are they just happier with their cable movie package?”, “Do they now only watch on Blu-ray? Or have they just made a conscious effort to read more?”
All these questions I asked myself, and it was killing me. Fortunately, you did have some movies out that were due back and so I came over here.
When you both invited me to live here, I could not believe my luck. This house, you, it’s really all I’ve ever wanted. I love you, Mrs. Beaumont.
You may not be quite right in the head and maybe neither am I. Maybe Mr. Beaumont isn’t either. But at least you and I have a soul.
19. VALENTINO’S MUSE
A monologue from the play by A.J. Ciccotelli
After finding a flyer for a poetry contest Dan Gardner, a would be poet from New York City, tries to reinvent himself as Ricardo Salome, a world class poet, and contemplates writing a poem for the contest.
The romantic poet waits… and waits… and waits. No happiness in his line of work. Ignorance is programmed bliss! Eons ago, his parents said they’d castrate him if he got more than a B in his art class,
scared that he’d become a painter and therefore a broke, homeless, drug addicted, homosexual, alcoholic, communist atheist, who would ask them for money perpetually, or far worse, the neighbors.
Then one day his hand picks up a pen and ka-boom! The first poem was birthed, followed by the next and then the next. A plethora of words all around this poet with bleeding hands like stigmata!
Then down on his knees he drops and cries to the heavens, “God, if you have inspired me to write with no other reason but to write, then could you give me a little talent to go along with my drive?”
God gave him far worse; he gave him writer’s block. So, this poet is named Ricardo Salome! He is me and I am he. Perhaps some people think poets only want the approval of others.
Perhaps people are right. F*** success! Oh, this poster of Greece? The representation of that long faded golden age… Where men were men and boys… frolicked naked under the sun and wrote poems to each other.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m like those Greek boys but I snap out of it because… once there was this boy named Farris and we used to… OH GOD SHUT UP DAN! I mean, Ricardo!
“Stuck in this man-made prison of my own device, am I! Left to the demonic forces of man-made hysteria, My mind goes asunder.” Not too shabby but what does it mean? “Stuck in this…”
(Laughs at himself.) It means I’m f***ed. Perhaps life would be easier for this poet if he were born the garbage man or the paperboy.
His mind would try to make stoop rhyme with… “My sadness thrown onto the stoop Isn’t my life a constant droop?” No! No! No! No more.
The only way I will get out of this bed is if God is willing to give his ungifted something that will rhyme with…
with… That brown wooden sandal… “That brown wooden sandal Belongs to a boy named Daniel.”
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