Comic Monologues

HOME

 

April 28, 2009

Monologue

for

Hurry! It’s Lovely Up Here!

I took a break from searching for jobs on the internet to renew my antidepressant prescription. My God! Do you know how many brands of antidepressant there are?

But people are still prejudiced against them-they’re suspicious of anything that makes you feel good.  Plus it’s an ego thing-they’d rather fight that disease than just have the disease go away.

So I swallowed my last pill, at $3.35 apiece, thank you, went back to Dregg’slist and found myself at an interview at a little neighborhood storefront that very afternoon at 4:20.

So there I am in my business suit sitting amongst the rain forest posters and the Rastifarians, and a lady in a rainbow tiara says, “Oh-you would be perfect” and shows me into the back room.

She explains that they offer herbal medicines, and for business reasons they refer to their various plants by flower names. So we sit down amongst all these seedlings and greenhouse stuff, and she looks at me and asks, “Lexapro?”

And I say, “How’d you know?”

And she says, “It’s that glow.”

And I say, “head to toe.”

And she says… 

 

March 2, 2010

Monologue

for

“Nobody does it like me”

Well, I’m in the soup again.

Seems like I’m always in the soup again.

Here’s what happened:

I got a gig bussing tables at a big benefit at the Art Museum for the Special Olympics, whatever that is.

And I notice this great looking man sitting with the big wigs on one end of this platform thing.

So I grabbed a coffee pot and went up there and leaned way over to get a little cleavage action goin’, and spilled coffee all over this little old lady.

Well, this little old man started making noises, so I hit him on the head with the pot and yelled, “Shut up you old gimp! What are you, retarded?”

So the great looking man yells, “Get away from my parents!” and I panicked and jumped on the table.

Well, the whole table tilted and all the plates and silverware and everything started sliding towards my end, and this big candle holder thing crashed into this show case and set fire to all these rare surfer poems from Persia. (Well, I’m not stupid, I know there’s no surfing in Persia, so I don’t know why these poems were considered priceless.) 

And of course the fire spread and the art museum lost the entire wing and all the art works inside. Aah, so what? They were all old anyway.

Then the Special Olympics were cancelled indefinitely, and Iran joined India and all the Arab countries to declare war on the United States.

Me? I’m getting out in about 4 years as long as I don’t try any “good behavior.”

 

 

Monologue 1

for

“I Love Paris”

 

Bonjour!

I’m living in Paris now!

Mais oui! Vraiment!

And it’s all because of a song!

 

Ten years ago my sister Ethel won an AARP trip to Gay Paree sponsored by “Oo La La”, the French division of Viagra.

Her husband refused to go, chained himself and the dog to the Barcalounger, and I was drafted as a substitute.

And it was a nightmare.

There was a transit strike, a sanitation strike, a museum strike and a restaurant strike.

 

And Ethel was on a roll, and I don’t mean croissant.

She hated the food, the language, the weather and the art.

L’hotel? Too small. Tour d’Eiffel?  Too tall. Versailles? Too high. French wine? Too dry.

Our last night there, she settled in with her diet Pepsi and the tabloids and I finally escaped.

 

I found Le Café Beurf and was struggling with the menu, when an old Hungarian lady came up to my table.

She introduced me to The Green Fairy and over our third glass she gave me her address and sang me this song:

 

 

Monologue 2

for

“I Love Paris”

‘Allo! ‘Allo! ‘Allo!

S’oop dudes?

Tu connaise le slang Americain? S’oop? What ees oop? S’oop?

Je suis leeveeng in El Aye now!

Oh Mi Gawd! Je suis not worthy!

 

I won Le Grand L’AARPa Treepa to La Valle Du Saint Fernando.

Heet was sponsor by La Buffet Peeg, le Americain division de la Cordon Blu.

 

Naturallyment, I want to take to dog of my seestair, but he chain ‘eemself to le ‘osband, and zo I take my sistair.

C’est la vie, no?

 

And eet was marvieux!

Les Autures de la Screen are on beeg strike! Just like ‘ome!

Et ma seestair, she love everything!

Le Motel Seex? Tres chic!

Le Tour de Watt? Tres hot!

Le Skeed Row? Tres beau!

Le Target? Tres Gay!

 

On ma nuit feenahl, I was ‘aveeing a cheese ‘amburgh enn MacDonnal, when une femme d’omeless she come to mon table and she geeve to me une petit de la famouse wine Americain. Tu connaise le Rippel?

She ask ‘ow I like El Aye, and she sang these song:

 

[In the lyrics, for “Paris” substitute “Burbank”]

 

Monologue 1

for

“Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries”

This time she’d get it right.

The last two singing telegrams had been disastrous: one more screw up and she was fired.

First she’d been in the San Fernando Valley looking for Feng Shui of Sherman Oaks and wound up at Shin Fein of Fullerton. And of course the request was “Rule Britannia.”

Then she’d been looking in Texas for the ultra right-wing South Houston Elite International Terrorist Scourge (the SHE-ITS) and found instead the local Shiite cell. Naturally, the song was “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Now she was in New York with birthday greetings for another organization. She found a soot streaked old brown stone with lots of wrought iron bars and stood under the leering gargoyles studying the door registry…

Meanwhile, in his freezing cell upstairs, Brother Brimstone had just finished his 10 day fast and meditation on the glories of death and was just reaching for his favorite metal tipped flail when the door bell rang. He clutched the sack cloth about his starving body and limped to the door.

“Opus Lay? Gourmet chips for the literati? This is from Bunny and the gang in West Coast Sales!”

 

Monologue 2

for

“Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries”

 On a freezing winter’s night in Turkmenistan, an old widow left her village hut to climb a rocky trail to the mountain cave of the local deity.

The wind tore at her rags and sent the pebbles dislodged by her staff hurtling into the black ravine.

At the summit, wheezing and sweating, she paused to wipe her withered face.

Her papery hands, trembling with fatigue, lit the dim oil lamps and placed offerings at the foot of the statue.

Then she commenced a bitter prayer.

 

Her husband was gone; her sons dead in the local war; her daughters stolen by tribal enemies.

Over her life she had hoarded some silver coins, but what use were these riches to her now?

Surely her next stop would be the grave.

In tears of anguish she begged the deity for guidance.

 

Now it just so happened that an itinerant monk had taken refuge in the cave for the night, and had been listening with great interest to all of this.

He had just returned from India where he had taken part in a film.

His heart opened wide to the poor widow and without another thought, he leapt out into the flickering light…

 

Monologue

for

THEM,  THERE  EYES

I was visiting my friend the other day at the Getty Center. There was some big to-do that day over some new acquisition, the mummy of Agamemnon or something. As we were watching from the observation area, they began examining the thing, and the head of the department happened to glance up at us. He was wearing one of those face masks so all I could see was his eyes, but my god! I almost fell over the railing. Remember Omar Sharif in Dr. Zhivago? OK, now imagine Omar Sherif on meth.

Well, I just had to go down there and check him out. So I put on a face mask my self, and slipped in amongst the crew, right next to this guy. When he asked for a scalpel, I gave him my phone number. When he asked for a clamp, I handed him my bra. And when he asked for a saw, into his hand went my left thigh!

When all the response I got was him grumbling about interns these days, I leapt up on the table scattering dust and dirt everywhere and said…

 

 

Monologue

for

“By Strauss”

Last Sunday I took my little niece Heidi to see her Grandma Hedwig at Poopenfeister’s Old World Retirement In.

I was thinking, “Poor old lady-she’s grown so timid and frail.”

When we got to her room, Hedwig was sleeping so we tip toed in.

As we were quietly setting down our fruit and flowers, a car passed by outside blaring that rap music, or hippidy hop, or whatever:

“Boom ba boom. Boom boom ba boom.”

 

I said, “Heidy, you know you’re getting old when you don’t like popular music anymore.

Now Jimmy Hendrix-there was a classic: “Purple haze-all in my brain!”

 

And Heidi said, “Oh I know! Those Disney Channel tunes are so lame.

Now, The Alphabet song-there was a car sick.

A B C D E F G…”

 

But just then Grandma Hedwig sat bolt upright and said…

                                                                                     

 

 

Monologue

for

“Anyone Can Whistle”

Oh Professor Hubert!

Jerry?

Are you OK?

I’m so sorry I slapped you!

 

But I’ve never played Spin-The-Bottle before.

I’d never heard of it ‘till tonight’s party.

When we left the others at the Cyclotron Pit and went to the Covalency Lab alone, I still didn’t get it.

And when you kissed me I was floored!

 

I guess I have

Inherently inhibited immanent intimacy antennae.

Covertly clueless courtship capability conciseness.

Radically repressed romance reconnaissance radar.

In short, dreadfully deficient desire data detection.

 

You see, it’s just like this…