The Best 20 Comedic Monologues For Teenage Females From Plays
1. ALL KIDDING ASIDE
A monologue from the play by Charles Johnson
Welcome to the show. My name is Scotty Devlin. I know what you’re all thinking… How come she has a boy’s name? Actually my real name is Heidi.
But I had to change it when I lost my virginity. Everyone named Heidi must change their name when they lose their virginity. That’s the rule.
Look at these girls over here all rustling through their programs. You’re all Heidis, right? Sorry. Am I embarrassed or what? Actually, I lied to you.
Scotty is my real name. You see, when I was born the doctor was either far-sighted or a prankster, because as I popped out, I remember it vividly, he declared “it’s a boy.”
In fact, I was a boy until my mother changed my diapers for the first time. Can you imagine their surprise. My mother fainted. My father just stared, “he can’t be my boy.” I was in stitches.
They tried calling me Judy for a while but I just wouldn’t respond. Would you have? There’s a Heidi nodding her head.
Oh, by the way, the part about all Heidis having to change their names when they lose their virginity, I didn’t lie about that.
That is a known fact. Yes, it’s true. Think about it. How many grown women do you know named Heidi? All the Heidis I know are about 8 years old with long blond braids down their backs.
They all wear pink dirndls with little white aprons. And are surrounded by goats. They skip their way into high school, getting A’s in Home Ec.
Then one day, probably on their 21st birthday- wham- Veronica, Yvonne, Desiree. This is absolutely true, I promise you. You’ve never heard of a child being called Yvonne, have you?
If I had been called Judy, I’d have to change my name when I stopped wearing bangs. Have you ever met a seventy year old woman named Judy?
It sounds like she should be chewing gum and skipping rope. I’m not making this up. Right before middle age sets in, Cindys become Harriet, or Beatrice, they have that option.
All Wendy’s die at puberty. Regrettable, but necessary. I sort of like being called Scotty, besides it’s better than my middle name – Doug. Look, I gotta run.
But before I go, I just want to say that I hope all the guys who are sitting here tonight with a girl named Heidi, wake up tomorrow morning with a Desiree.
2. Container of Sharks!
A monologue from the play by Don Zolidis
(JOYCE, a nervous inventor presenting her idea to investors)
Hello Sharks. (She takes a deep breath) Sometimes with all of the trauma we are experiencing on a daily basis, we need something that’s a little bit of a stick-me-up. Pick-me-up.
A pick-me-up. (She is trying to hold it together) I mean a pick-me-up. I said the word wrong. Which is really stupid of me. I always do this – as soon as I have a chance at doing something great I screw it up.
I forgot to tell you my name. My name is Joyce. Actually you probably already know that from what the Voice said so why am I bothering to say it again?
(She shivers and twitches) Can I start over please? (She starts over)
Hello Sharks! (Takes another moment) Hello Sharks. Hello Sharks! Hello Sharks. I am so sorry. Hello Humans and Shark!
My name is Joyce, and sometimes with the daily trauma in our lives we need a little something to… a pick-me-up.
(She’s about to lose it again. She hisses to herself) ‘Get it together, Joyce. You can do this.’ ‘Everyone was right about you.’
‘Shut your face. Shut your stupid face. I’m not listening to you.’ ‘That’s why you fail.’ ‘No. NO. Nooooo.’ (She growls like the Hulk and rallies, talking really fast)
So what I decided to do was make these stickers! Yes I did! And these stickers come in packs of twelve and you can put them on things!
Like this one if you need to remind yourself of your capabilities! It says “You can do it!” (She puts the sticker on herself)
But of course you can’t read it if you put it on your shirt, so you need to put it somewhere else so I’m actually going to take the sticker off and put it here.
(She takes the sticker off and puts it on her arm) It doesn’t really stick as well to skin because that’s not how stickers work, but I’m working on that,
this is just the prototype actually, but… there are other stickers, like this one that says “I believe in you!” Yes! Sometimes you need that.
Sometimes you need to have someone believe in you, even if you’re the only person who believes in you.
Even if everyone else thinks you’re a loon, and thinks you’ll never make it, and says that your sticker idea is dumb and you’ll never amount to anything and you should’ve never left Bemidji and you’re going to fail in a blaze of fire and you will die alone. Even then.
(She puts the other sticker on herself and looks at it. Sadly) Sometimes the stickers don’t work. (She sniffles) (She rallies) But I have others!
Like this one which says “You will not die alone.” (She contemplates that sticker) This one is dark. I mean you probably don’t need a sticker to say this if you were a confident person.
I guess I’m the kind of person who needs a sticker to tell me I’m not going to die alone. But what does the sticker know, honestly?
The sticker doesn’t have some kind of stranglehold on truth. The sticker is just a meaningless saying. Why did I even make them?
Who would do that? (She takes another sticker, reads it) “You can avoid poor decisions.” (She stops) Can I start over?
A monologue from the play by Kristen Doherty
Okay so, I was on Insta right and saw Pete McIntire’s name online. I don’t know what possessed me, but I got brave and just wrote “Hi” … I know! … I can’t believe I did either…
Anyway, he writes back! Straight away, almost, and said “Hi Jeanie… How R U?” Just the letters R U… Ok pay attention to that because it becomes important later in the story… Ok?
So anyway, I wrote “Great!” but with an 8 instead of the letters… so like Grr and then the number 8. Because I thought that sounded cooler… and he just used RU…
Are you keeping up? Yes? Good! Because then he wrote “We should totally catch up and watch a movie or something!” Yes! He actually did.
I couldn’t believe the words that popped up on the screen. Pete McIntire asking me to hang out… and see a movie with him … In a dark cinema, where he could totally like want to kiss me or something.
And anyway, I was like you know… trying not to get too excited. Because this is Pete! Pete McIntire… So, I just like waited for like a whole minute, which was torture…
But I didn’t want to be too keen, so I was patient for like 65 agonising seconds… Then finally I wrote “Yeah I’m up for that”.
So, all casual like when I felt like screaming “Yes! Yes! Yes! I’ll have your baby Pete McIntire!” Anyway… Now this part is what I need your advice on…
Because now it gets confusing…. Ok, so he wrote. “I can ask Steven to come and you can ask Stace” Boo! Double date… Harder to get a pash when we have our besties in tow.
Anyway, I’m thinking “at least I will be on a date with Pete McIntire” … But then I thought “Does he mean a double date like as in ‘him and I’ and ‘Steven and Stacey?’
… Or a double date of ‘Steven and me’ and ‘him and Stacey?’ Does he like Stacey? … He’s never met Stacey… or has he? Are they secretly together?
I mean she would have told me, right?… She tells me everything… But then why would he call her Stace if they’ve never met?
Stace is a nickname and you only give people nicknames if you know them personally and generally like them… If you are friends… Or more than friends….
Do you think they are together, and Stacey hasn’t told me because she knows I am totally in love with him and have been for months?
Anyway, then it got really, really confusing because I said. “Sure I’ll ask her” I know! I showed so much restraint because I really wanted to scream at him “Are you cheating on me with my best friend?
… But I didn’t I just said “sure.” Then anyway, then he wrote “Thanks Jeannie, I love you.” What the actual…? I love you! Exclamation point.
Spelt out. ‘I L.O.V.E you.’ Not just ‘L.U.V’. That means something right? I mean it’s got to mean something! And this relates to the RU reference from earlier.
If he is the sort of guy to use letter abbreviations in his texting like RU, why would he use the actual word LOVE if he didn’t actually love me… Like for real?
Okay. Then it gets really, really complicated because he put one love heart emoji and one laughing crying emoji. Does the laughing crying emoji cancel out the love heart, or is it the other way around?
Because it changes the whole meaning if it does.
A monologue from the play by Ronnie Burkett
And just as I was about to give up, there was a miracle. There was a school play. See my high school had this drama teacher, Mr. Garfinkel, who apparently had studied at a lesser institution of higher learning in a suburb of Toronto that made him like this total theatre expert.
He was always doing collectives and student-created work. That‟s just a step up from musicals and murder mysteries, I suppose, but, just the same, they were always so lame.
But in his mind they were completely relevant to our teenage angst.
Anyway, there was a play – or rather a student collective – called Beautiful Voices, a hodge-podge of melting-pot stories reflecting the diversity of teenage experience and the one-ness of our global village, blah blah blah.
It was a series of monologues and choral chanting with yoga-base movement, and featured the usual cast of characters.
Amy Tamblidge, this totally annoying born again “ho” with giant t*ts talking about her dreams for global peace, Randall Betrick ranting on about his parents‟ divorce again,
Trey Fergusson and Amber Witherspoon in this embarrassing dialogue regarding teenage suicide without having the courtesy to actually perform it for us,
Blaine Hawker confessing that he was gay – oh puh-leese, like that was news – and now were all supposed to like him even though he was just as annoying as before but out, and on and on and on, blah, blah, blah.
But in the end, there he was. My miracle. A boy who had never dipped his toe into the cesspool of drama club before, but had been coerced into my group by Mr. Garfinkel because of his brooding intensity and sullen mystique.
Which meant he was totally hot, in that damaged and dangerous kind of way.
5. Surface Tension
A monologue from the play by Elyne Quan
(Sighs) I‟ve always wanted to be taller. I‟ve wanted to be taller and… different. Sometimes blond. That would be something.
I clearly remember that in grade one I wished I had blond curly hair so I could wear pale blue ribbons in it and be really cute.
Not just kind of cute, but really cute. I was walking home for lunch. The sun was out and it was a beautiful day. I was looking down at the ground at my silhouette – specifically my head – and I remember wishing I had curly blond hair.
I would be noticed. Pale blue ribbons and pigtails. And a matching dress, frilly but not too frilly. And matching little blue shoes with white patent bows on them.
Shoes can make or break an outfit, you know. Well as hard as I wished I never became blond. Go figure. And dye jobs in the early eighties weren‟t the science they are now.
Curly blond hair for a little Chinese girl was bit far-fetched so I did the best I could. Perms! So I could actually have curly pigtails if I wanted them.
Of course I was older by now so pigtails were out of the question. (Takes out a photo and presents it to the audience.)
Parted down the middle and curly and away from my face. Like the girl in Aha‟s “Take On Me” video. Yeah. So I had bad hair all the way through my formative years.
But hair isn‟t everything.
6. All This Intimacy
A monologue from the play by Rajiv Joseph
Ty… I wasn’t going to bring this up today, but seeing as you have laryngitis, I figured this might be the best time for a conversation.
Because any inclination you may have to interrupt me, well that just won’t be possible because you can’t speak. Ha. Oh well.
Ok, OK, just sit still for a second and let me speak before you start scribbling away like a madman, Jeez! I knew you’d do this or something, just sit there and let me say my peace!
Listen… Okay. Ty: So as you know, as we both well know… there has never been a time in my life, when I haven’t been, you know in school! (she sees him scribbling) Let me finish!
(she reads what he holds up) You know I don’t like that word, it’s rude. (He starts writing again) I can’t believe you have laryngitis and you’re still interrupting me! Constantly!
Look I’m going to talk and you can listen or not listen, but (Ty holds up a note) No, I don’t want to order in pizza! I am not staying for dinner!
BREAK UP, OK, BREAK UP. Me. Break up. With you. How about that? Oh this has never happened to Ty Greene before, because he is so smooth and no one can ever get in two words in edgewise (pause)
And don’t look at me like that. Don’t act so heartbroken. It’s not you. I just never feel we’re on the same page. This is what I’m talking about, Ty.
I’m trying to pull things together. I love you, but when I’m around you, things come apart. They come apart.
7. Hold Me
A monologue from the play by Jules Feiffer
I talk too much. I’m quite bright, so it’s interesting, but nevertheless, I talk too much. You see, already I’m saying much more than I should say.
Boys hate it for a girl to blurt out, ‘I’m bright.’ They think she’s really saying, I’m brighter than you are.’ As a matter of fact, that is what I am saying.
I’m brighter than even the brightest boys I know. That’s why it’s a mistake to talk too much. Boys fall behind and feel challenged and grow hostile.
So when I’m very attracted to a boy I make a point to talk more slowly than I would to one of my girl friends.
And because I guide him along from insight he ends up being terribly impressed with his own brilliance. And with mine for being able to keep up with him.
And he tells me I’m the first girl he’s ever met who’s as interesting as one of his mates. That’s love.
8. Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead
A monologue from the play by Bert V. Royal
I was pregnant. Don’t worry. It wasn’t yours. I had just gotten an abortion the day before and the next day in Biology, we were ironically learning about reproduction.
I’m listening to Miss Rainey talking about fallopian tubes, the uterus, eggs and I’m feeling sick to my stomach already. Trying to zone out on anything I can.
So I start reading a note over Miss Puritanical Princess’ shoulder and she’s telling her friend “how happy she is that she’s a virgin and that she’s going to stay that way until she gets married and how repulsed she is by all the little wh*res at our school.”
Without thinking, I reached into my pocket for my cute, little red Bic lighter and lit her cute, little red hair on fire. And every day in therapy, they ask me if I’m sorry yet and I just can’t be.
No matter how hard I try. B*tches like that make me sick. They’ve made me sick. I am officially sick, psychotic, unrepentant and unremorseful.
I’ve been branded a sociopath and I have no choice but to believe it.
9. August: Osage County
A monologue from the play by Tracy Letts
I ever tell you the story of Raymond Qualls? Not much story to it. Boy I had a crush on when I was thirteen or so. Real rough-looking boy, beat up Levis, messy hair. Terrible under-bite.
But he had these beautiful cowboy boots, shiny chocolate leather. He was so proud of those boots, you could tell, the way he‟d strut around, all arms and elbows, puffed up and cocksure.
I decided I needed to get a girly pair of those same boots and I knew he‟d ask me to go steady, convinced myself of it. He‟d see me in those boots and say, “Now there the gal for me.”
Found the boots in a window downtown and just went crazy: I‟d stay up late in bed, rehearsing the conversation I was going to have with Raymond when he saw me in my boots.
Must‟ve asked Momma a hundred times if I could get those boots. “What do you want for Christmas, Vi?” “Momma, I‟ll give all of it up for those boots.” Bargaining, you know?
She started dropping hints about a package under the tree she had wrapped up, about the size of a boot box, real nice wrapping paper.
“Now Vi, don‟t you cheat and look in there before Christmas morning.” Little smile on her face. Christmas morning, I was up like a shot, boy under the tree, tearing open that box.
There was a pair of boots, all right… men‟s work boots, holes in the toes, chewed up laces, caked in mud and dog poo.
Lord, my Momma laughed for days. My Momma was a mean, nasty old woman. I suppose that‟s where I got it from.
A monologue from the play by Stefan Marks
Have you started filming? No! Please don’t start, can you rewind it? Okay. Alright. Okay… Can I stand? No, okay. Alright. I’ll sit. Um, okay, you’re really going to cut this part out, right?
Okay, okay, sorry, okay. Start now. Hello, everybody. My name is Alice and I write untraditional children’s stories. I try to write with the wisdom of an adult and the honesty of a child. I’ve written seven books.
There Is No God and I Can Prove it, that’s one of them, and Waking Up Early Sucks, Grandma’s Gonna Die Soon But That’s Okay, Mom and Dad Lie All the Time, and.. oh God, I’m thinking… Okay, well, there’s three more.
And I try to teach kids that you know, you’re probably not going to get everything you want when you grow up, but that’s okay because society has brainwashed you into thinking that you want something that you probably didn’t want in the first place.
OH, do I want to have children… Well, you see, I like to think of my stories as my children, you know, ones you can legally kill off after they’ve been published. (Awkward laughter.)
.. And usually I think before I speak, but lately I’ve been speaking and then thinking and I’m like Oh my God Alice why the f*** did you just say that and I’m like… Oh my god, I’m so sorry I don’t usually swear.
Can you please cut that out? Okay, thank you. Do I actually think that there’s no God? Um, well, I don’t think that’s going to help me get dates.
…Okay. I believe that if there is a God, it’d probably be smart enough to hide its existence from me.
11. Skid Marks: A Play About Driving
The Best 19 Comedic Monologues For Teenage Boys From Plays
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 co*ks 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 dumbass 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, NI**A!
You gonna let this little white girl lose this battle?! Lose this battle against Pinstripe Muthaf***a Tyrannical Bullsh*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*ggah down by the Pyramid gone axe me, which one I rather have. P**sy or weed?
I say, “N*ggah? Now what kind of question is that?” I’m the type a n*ggah, can’t live without neither, but I much rather have some weed than some p**sy.
P***y and weed . . . got some similarities. P**sy 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**sy 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**sy 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**sy-smellin’ weed!
I’m on a marketing grind: “P**sy weed.” N*ggahs’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**sy to me.”
That was brilliant. I’ma have ta record that Triple Six Mafia could use that verse.