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A monologue from the play by George C. Wolfe
Miss Roj appears. He is dressed in striped patio pants, white go-go boots, a halter, and cat shaped sunglasses.
What would seem ridiculous on anyone else, Miss Roj wears as if it were high fashion. He carries himself with total elegance and absolute arrogance.
God created black people and black people created style. The name’s Miss Roj… that’s R.O.J. thank you and you can find me every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday nights at “The Bottomless Pit,”
the watering hole for the wild and weary which asks the question, “Is there life after Jherri-curl?” Thanks, doll.
Yes, If they be black and swish, the B.P. has seen them, which is not to suggest the Pit is lacking in cultural diversity.
Oh no. There are your hinge queens, white men who like their chicken legs dark. And let’s not forget, “Los Muchachos de la Neighborhood.”
But the speciality of the house is The Snap Queens. (He snaps his fingers.) We are a rare breed.
For, you see, when something strikes our fancy, when the truth comes piercing through the dark, well you just can’t let it pass unnoticed.
No darling. You must pronounce it with a snap. (He snaps).
Snapping comes from another galaxy, as do all snap queens. That’s right. I ain’t just your regular oppressed American Negro.
No-no-no! I am an extraterrestrial. And I ain’t talkin’ none of that shit you seen in the movies! I have real power.
Yes, I was placed here on Earth to study the life habits of a deteriorating society, and child when we talkin’ new York City, we are discussing the Queen of Deterioration.
Miss New York is doing a slow dance with death, and I am here to warn you all, but before I do, I must know… don’t you just love my patio pants?
Annette Funicello immortalized them in “Beach Blanket Bingo,” and I have continued the legacy. And my go-gos?
I realize white after Labor Day is very gauche, but as the saying goes, if you’ve got it flaunt it, if you don’t, front it and snap to death any bastard who dares to defy you.
(Laughing) Oh ho! My demons are showing. Yes, my demons live at the bottom of my Bacardi and Coke.
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