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A monologue from the play by Walter Wykes
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My husband is very experienced. He’s been with hundreds of women. Thousands. On our wedding day alone, he impregnated seven bridesmaids, two caterers, the photographer,
the photographer’s assistant, her youngest daughter, the preacher’s wife, my third-grade English teacher, a marine biologist, two blue whales, and one old woman who just happened to wander in off the street.
He has no morals, you see. He thinks they’re very old fashioned. He’s a philosopher! But he liked the idea of having a virgin, you know, tarnishing the flower, plucking the petal, all that—it was very exciting for him.
Unfortunately, he knew, being a philosopher, that the moment he actually did it, everything would be ruined. So as soon as the ceremony was over, he locked me away in a little room with his galoshes.
In addition, he had a problem with his feet. A certain … odor … and the galoshes … well … you know. I used to beg him to release me. To have his way. Or at least put a bullet through my head.
But he wouldn’t do it. Except on Sundays. On Sundays, he often let me out, and we would pretend to be very happy.