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A monologue from the play by Stephen Adly Guirgis
SAINT MONICA (twenties – but could be any age)
Saint Monica is a very sassy woman, who could be of any age or race. In “real life” she was the mother of St. Augustine.
We are now in the After-Life, and there has been a petition to reopen the case of Judas Iscariot. Saint Monica is very much in support of this petition.
Hey, y’all. Welcome to my world. . . . So this is the part of the story, where, if it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be no more parts to the f***in’ story, OK? My name is MONICA — better known to you mere mortals as SAINT Monica.
Yeah, dass right, SAINT — as in “better not don’t get up in my grill ’cuz I’ll mess your sh*t up ’cuz I’m a Saint and I got mad saintly “connects,” OK? You ever drove down Santa Monica Boulevard?
You ever ate some sushis down the Santa Monica Pier? Well, dass my boulevard and my pier, and dass all I gotta say about that — word to the wise, word is most definitely B-O-N-D bond . . .
Anyways, (lemme catch my breaf), Anyways, Up in Heaven, a lotta peoples don’t wanna hang with me ’cuz they say I’m a “Nag.” It’s true. And you know what I say about that?
I say; “F*** them b*tches,” ’cuz — you know what — I am a Nag, and if I wasn’t a nag, I wouldn’t never made it to be no Saint, and the church wouldn’t a had no Father of the Church named Saint Augustine —
’cuz I birthed the mothahf***ah, raised him and when he started messin’ up, like, all the time and constantly, I nagged God’s a** to save him! I nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged ’till God got so tired of my sh*t that he did save my son,
and my son — Saint Augustine — he stopped bangin’ wh*res and sippin’ on some wine and he became learn-ed, so f***in learn-ed that he’s known as one of the Fathers of the Church, and you could look that sh*t up!
Go ahead, look it up right now, I’ll wait! . . . Dass right: “Father Up In This Mothahf***ah!” “Father of the Church” — got a plaque and everything! So if I hadn’t been a Nag, All a Y’all n*ggas woulda been a b*stard church,
so, sip on dat, b*tches! . . . Anyways, (lemme catch my breaf), OK: As a result of my reputation of having God’s ear, a lotta mothahf***ahs pray to me — I have three full-time assistants just to sift through it all.
Long story short, I was axed to look into the case of Judas Iscariot by this Irish Gypsy lawyer b*tch in Purgatory named Cunningham. She wanted me to do some naggin’ to God on Judas’ behalf, and, quite frankly,
I was impressed by her nagging abilities — ’cuz that b*tch nagged my a** day and night for forty days . . . But I don’t nag for juss any anybody, and I definitely don’t nag for no mothahf***ah I don’t know,
so, I went down to check out Judas for my own self — (And now she is with Judas.) (To audience.) He looked f***in’ retarded, he wouldn’t talk or nuthin. He didn’t seem to hear me, and I’m not someone who has a problem expressing myself.
I figured he was fakin’, so I did this: (To Judas.) Yo, Judas! . . . Judas! . . . Yo, You Deaf, mothahf***ah? . . . . Judas, yo! . . . (To audience.) I smacked the b*tch around a little (Monica slaps, kicks, shoves.)
Yo Helen Keller! Yo, wake up! . . . Don’t front — I know you could hear me . . . (To audience.) Then I started snappin’ on his a**: (To Judas.) Yo, Judas, you got chance for thirty pieces of Silver, mothahf***ah?! . . .
Yo, Judas, how much you pay for that haircut? . . . thirty pieces of silver?! Yo Judas, why you so “hung” up? C’mon, let’s “hang” out. C’mon, b*tch, go out on a “limb”! You want a “olive”?
C’mon mothahf***ah, have a “olive.” Wanna go to the “Olive Garden” restaurant? Day got good “Olive Oil” there . . . Ah-aight, fine, come on, Judas, whaddya say you an me go down to the bar and — betray some mothahf***ahs!
Whaddya say?! I know you like betraying! What’s up, you ain’t in the mood to betray today?! Ahaight, mothahf***ah, we can just “hang”?! Get it? Hang?! Get it?! Do you get it?! . . .
Wassamatter?! Hungry?! How ’bout some supper?! You want some supper, mothahf***ah?! C’mon, one last supper, whaddya say?! (To audience.) I couldn’t break him. So I sat down next to him. (She sits.)
I sat with Judas Iscariot for three days. (To audience.) Then, On the night of the third day, sumpthin happened. While I was restin’ my vocal chords, I saw sumpthin’ unexpected. I saw a single tear fall out Judas eye.
Just one. When the tear hit the ground, I saw it was red like a ruby. I looked into his eyes, like this: (Monica looks into Judas’ eyes.) He couldn’t look at me. Or he looked through me. I couldn’t tell.
His eyes was empty. He barely breathed. He was like a catatonic statue of a former human being. And I detected sadness in him. Paralyzing, immobilizing, overwhelming sadness.
His sadness ran through him like a river that had frozen up and died and no one lived there no more. After a while, I didn’t know what else to do, so I thought I’d just hold him in my arms for like a minute, warm him up before I left.
(Monica cradles Judas in her arms. Beat.) I held him in my arms for four days. On the third day, I remembered how Jesus had said that God has the biggest love for the least of his creatures —
and Judas was the least-est creature I had ever seen. On the fourth day, Judas dropped another single tear. It was clear-colored this time and it evaporated into the earth on impact.
He trembled briefly, then froze up again . . . I had seen enough. I took off my outer garments and left them for him so he could smell something human. I collected my tears in a bucket and poured it on his face so he could taste the salt.
Then I went back home and got on the horn to God. I dialed direct, yo. Some people call it being a Nag, I call it doing my Job. I got a calling, y’all — you should try giving me a shout if ya ever need it,
cuz my name is Saint Monica, I’m the mother of Saint Augustine, one of the Fathers of the Church, and ya know what? My a** gets results.
