Female Monologues
Patsy -Little Murders
Alfred, every age has problems. And people somehow manage . . . to be happy!
I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bully you . . . Yes, I do mean to bully you.
Alfred, do you know how I wake up every morning of my life? With a smile on my face! And for the rest of the day I come up against an unending series of challenges to wipe that smile off my face. The Breather calls . . . ex-boyfriends call to tell me they’re getting married . . . someone tries to break into the apartment while I’m dressing . . . there’s a drunk asleep in the elevator . . . three minutes after I’m out on the street my camel coat turns brown . . . the subway stalls . . . the man standing next to me presses his body up against mine . . . the up elevator jams . . . rumors start buzzing around the office that we’re about to be automated . . . the down elevator jams . . . all the taxis are off duty . . . a man tries to pick me up on the bus . . . another man follows me home . . . I step in the door and the Breather’s on the phone . . . isn’t that enough to wipe the smile off anybody’s face?
Well, it doesn’t wipe it off mine! Because for every bad thing there are two good things – no – four good things! There are friends . . . and a wonderful job . . . and tennis . . . and skiing . . . and traveling . . . and musicals . . . and driving in the country . . . and flying your own airplane . . . and staying up all night to see the sun rise.
Alfred, come back here!
Alfred, if everything is so hopeless, why do anything?
Maggie-The Shadow Box
No. I want you to come home. What is this place anyway? They make everything so nice. Why? So you forget? I can't. I want you to come home. I want you to stay out four nights a week, bowling, and then come home so I can yell and not talk to you, you son of a bitch. I want to fight so you'll take me to a movie and by the time I get you to take me I'm so upset I can't enjoy the picture. I want to get up too early, too goddamn early, and I'll let you know about it, too, because I have to make you breakfast, because you never, never once eat it, because you make me get up too early just to keep you company and talk to you, and it's cold, and my back aches, and I got nothing to say to you and we never talk and it's six-thirty in the morning, every morning, even Sunday morning and it's all right... it's all right ... it's all right because I want to be there because you need me to be there because I want you to be because I want you to come home. Come home, that's all. Come home.
Jane - ‘Denity Crisis
When I was eight years old, someone brought me to this... theatre; full of lots of other children. We were supposed to be watching a production of "Peter Pan." And I remember that something seemed terribly wrong with the whole production. Odd things kept happening. For instance, when the children would fly, the ropes they were on would just keep breaking ... and the actors would come thumping to the ground and they had to be carried off by stagehands. And there seemed to be an unlimited supply of understudies, to take their places, and then they'd just fall to the ground. And then the crocodile that chases Captain Hook, seemed to be a real crocodile, it wasn't an actor. And at one point it fell off the stage and crushed a couple of kids in the front row. And then some of the understudies came and took their places in the audience. And from scene to scene, Wendy just seemed to get fatter and fatter until finally by the end of act one she was completely immobile and they had to move her off stage with a cart.
You remember how in the second act Tinkerbell drinks some poison that Peter is about to drink in order to save him? And then Peter turns to the audience and he says that "Tinkerbell is going to die because not enough people believe in fairies. But if all of you clap your hands real hard to show that you do believe in fairies, maybe she won't die." So, we all started to clap. I clapped so long and so hard that my palms hurt and they even started to bleed I clapped so hard. Then suddenly the actress playing peter pan turned to the audience and she said, "That wasn't enough. You did not clap hard enough. Tinkerbell is dead." And then we all started to cry. The actress stomped off stage and refused to continue with the production. They finally had to lower the curtain. The ushers had to come help us out of the aisles and into the street. I don't think that any of us were ever the same after that experience. It certainly turned me against theatre. And even more damagingly, I think it's warped my total sense of life. I mean nothing seems worth trying if Tinkerbell is just going to die.
Delores, Working
It would be very boring if I had to say, “Would you like a cocktail?” over and over, so I come out different for my own enjoyment. I say, “what’s exciting at the bar that I can offer?”…or something. Maybe with cocktails, I give them a little philosophy. They have coffee; I give ‘em political science. I have an opinion on every single subject there is. My bosses don’t like it, so I speak “sotto voce”. But if I get heated, I don’t give a damn. I speak like an Italian speaks.
I have to be a waitress. How else does the world come to me? Everyone wants to eat, everyone has hunger. And I serve them. I give service. I can’t be servile. There is a difference. I get intoxicated with giving service. It become theatrical and I feel like…Mata Hari, and it intoxicates me. I’m on stage.
Sister Robert Ann - Nunsense
Oh, yeah. No sweat. (They give each other a "high five" and Sr. Hubert exits L.) Alright! Now that I have you alone for a few moments I'd like to share something with you that I think you'll get a kick out of. And that's some more of my "habit humor." Now, you're probably wondering what nuns do in their spare time. Well, this particular nun likes to create other nuns. For instance: (She takes each side of her veil and pulls it forward over her shoulders. She begins twisting the veil into "braids" starting with the part closest to the head working on down to the ends. She stretches the braids long and straight.) Sister Pocahontas! How! (She swags the braids.) Yodle-ay-he-hoo! Sister Heidi! (She lifts her right leg with the knee bent.) Sister Pippi Longstockings! (She stretches the braids above her head.) Attila the Nun!! Oh, here's one of my favorites. (She twists the braids around her ears ala Princess Leia in "Star Wars") Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You are my only hope! Okay, I got one more. This takes a little time so bear with me.
(The following is spoken during the time it takes to create the last impression, which is done by taking the "braids" and tying them in a double knot just above the forehead. The sides are tucked into the roll of braids creating the look of an old-fashioned hairdo.)
Tell me if you see anybody coming, okay? You know, sometimes I do these for my students. They think they're hysterical. Of course, they love to laugh. That's how I get through to them, you know, by being funny. I teach seventh grade. That is a rough age to be. I oughta know. When I was in seventh grade, I got sent to St. Clare's School for the Deplorable. Okay here we go the final impression of the evening.
(She raises her head with appropriate tremor ala Katherine Hepburn.
The calla lilies are in bloom again! Such a strange flower!
She bows and puts her veil back as it should be.
Male Monologues
Richard, The Seven Year Itch
There’s not a thing in the world to worry about. Two very attractive, intelligent people happened to meet under circumstances that seemed to be – propitious -- and, well, it happened. It was very charming and gay. As a matter of fact it was wonderful. But now it’s over.
(He rises and starts for the bedroom.)
We’ll say good-bye, like two intelligent people. We’ll have coffee . . .
(He knocks gently on the door. He listens. He knocks again. His calm is evaporating)
How can she possibly sleep like that!
What’s the matter with her anyway? Maybe she’s sick or something. Maybe she’s dead.
Maybe the excitement was too much for her and she passed away in her sleep.
Oh, my God! That means the police. And the reporters. “Actress found dead in publisher’s apartment!
(He looks desperately around. His eyes light on the staircase)
No. No. I’ll just haul the body upstairs. That’s all. Right back upstairs, nail up the door again and that’s all. They’d have no reason to suspect me. I’d wear gloves, of course. They’d never prove a thing.
Now stop it. You’re getting hysterical again.
(Pause)
Well, if she isn’t dead, why the hell doesn’t she just get up and go home? It’s late. It’s – late – it’s really late – it’s . . .
. . . ten after eight? It seemed later than that.
(He is somewhat relieved by the time)
Well, I’ll give her another half hour to catch up on her beauty sleep. Then, I’ll very politely wake her. We’ll have coffee like two intelligent people. And then, I’ll kiss her good-bye.
(Confidently acting out the scene)
It’s been fun, darling, but now, of course, it’s over . . . No tears – no regrets . . . Just good-bye. It’s been swell . . .
(He blows a kiss, waves and then stands transfixed, a foolish expression on his face)
The Actor’s Nightmare
Oh don't go! Maybe someone else will come out. Of course, sometimes people have soliloquies in Shakespeare. Let's just wait a moment more and maybe someone will come. Oh dear.
To be or not to be. That is the question. Line. Line! Oooooh... Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I. Whether ‘tis nobler to kill oneself or not killing oneself or to sleep a great deal. We are such stuff that dreams are made on and our lives are rounded by a little sleep.
Uhh thrift- thrift Horatio! Neither a borrower nor a lender be- but to thine own self be true. There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. Extraordinary how potent cheap music can be. Out, out damn spot! I come to live it wealthily in Padua- if wealthily then happily in Padua.
Brush up your Shakespeare- start quoting him now! Da da da...
I wonder whose yacht that is! How was China? Very large, China. How was Japan? Very small, Japan.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which is stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. Line. Line! Oh my God. ..
Line. When you call for a line, the stage manager normally gives you your next line to refresh your memory. Line. ..
I'm sorry. This is supposed to be Hamlet or Private Lives or something and I keep rattling on like a maniac- I really do apologize. I just don't recall attending a single rehearsal. I don't know what I was doing. And also you came here to see Edwin Booth and you get me. I really am very embarrassed. Sorry. Line!
A, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, n, o, p, q, r, s, t...
Lloyd, Noises Off
Tim, let me tell you a little something about my life in the Big Apple. I have Hamlet's Ghost on the phone with me for an hour every evening after rehearsal complaining that Claudio is sucking sourballs through his speeches.
Gertrude is off every afternoon doing a soap and Horatio is off the whole week doing a commercial for Gallo wine. Hamlet himself, would you believe it, has come down with psychological problems.
Then last night I get a ring from Brooke telling me she's very unhappy here and has gotten herself a certificate for nervous exhaustion. I don't have time to find and rehearse a new Vicki- I have just one afternoon while Hamlet sees his shrink and Ophelia begins divorce proceedings to cure Brooke of her nervous exhaustion with no medical aids but some whiskey- you've got the whiskey- a few flowers- you have the money for the flowers- and a certain fading bedside charm.
So I have not come to the theatre to hear about other people's problems. I have come to be taken out of myself and preferably not put back again!
Marc - Art
It's a complete mystery to me, Serge buying this painting. It's unsettled me; it's filled me with some indefinable unease. When I left his place, I had to take three pellets of Gelsemium 9C which Paula recommended -- Gelsemium or Ignatia, she said, Gelsemium or Ignatia, which do you prefer, I mean, how the hell should I know?-- because I couldn't begin to understand how Serge, my friend, could have bought that picture.
Two hundred grand!
He's comfortable, but he's not rolling in money.
Comfortable, that's all, just comfortable. And he spends two hundred grand on a white painting.
I have to go see Ivan, he's a friend of ours, I have to discuss this with Ivan. Although Ivan's a very tolerant guy, which of course when it comes to relationships, is the worst thing you can be. Ivan's tolerant because he couldn't care less.
If Ivan tolerates the fact that Serge has spent two hundred grand on some piece of white shit, it means he couldn't care less about Serge. Obviously.
Dave,LibidOff
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Narcissistic, self-obsessed dorks. Don’t be one of them any longer! And LibidOff makesit so much easier to deal with former lovers. Never again is there that sexual tension.You get to watch them squirm and wonder “Why doesn’t he want me anymore?” Andwith all the money you’ll save on pornography and dates, you’ll actually be savingmoney buying the patch! LibidOff… for a happier tomorrow. (He smiles desperately.)