Look, she’s not like other girls. She’s secure in what we have. She doesn’t need convincing. Trust me, we’ve talked about it like a million times. In fact, we were out with her obnoxious cousin, Tracy, for brunch a couple of weeks ago. Tracy was newly engaged and asked when we would be. And Beth just told her—we aren’t that kind of couple. And Tracy was like, what kind of couple, the marrying kind? And Beth was super cool and level headed and said—we just don’t really believe in the institution. And if Tracy can’t respect that, then let’s just agree to disagree. And she shut the conversation down right there. She used the exact same arguments I’ve been using. It was awesome.
Irritable Male Syndrome
Lynn Trickey
RICHARD, 30s
A few guys sit around drinking beer, watching a football game. RICHARD cheers a good play, then he casually starts chatting with his buddies.
RICHARD Hey, uh, you guys, you ever hear about this Male PMS thing?
Yeah, I know—it’s probably bullshit, huh?
[Shouting at the TV.]
Go! Go! Go! GO! Fuck, that should have been a first down.
My buddy was saying that he heard on NPR that men are on cycles just like women. I guess it makes sense . . . you know, your body has other cycles—breathing, nervous system—hell, your cells replace themselves . . . every single cell replaces itself every seven years. That’s a cycle, right?
OH FUCK NO, REF! Come on! That’s fucking bullshit! Are you blind?!
Angie and I got in this fight last night over comforters. Comforters! It was so stupid but I just couldn’t help it I got so mad. And then, as we’re yelling at each other she accuses me of being a baby, and that really hurt you know? And I don’t know why, but I just started to tear up and I couldn’t stop!
COME ON!
Anyway I started reading about this: Irritable Male syndrome. This doctor said you can get frustrated, anxious, or just be really sensitive, and it’s “associated with biochemical changes, hormonal fluctuations, stress, and loss of male identity.”
What the fuck does that even mean? Loss of male identity. I know who I am. Just because I get upset when people say mean and hurtful things to me doesn’t mean I’m overly sensitive.
And so what if it is related to my hormones? Everyone’s got them, you know? And I let Angie eat her chocolate and I rub her tummy when she has cramps so maybe it’s okay if I feel shitty once a month too.
[He stands up, screaming.]
COME ON, REF! GIVE THE GUY A FUCKING BREAK! HE’S DOING HIS BEST. HE’S NOT GONNA BE PERFECT. HE’S JUST A MAN FOR GODDSAKE!
[He looks at his cohorts, composes himself. Sits back down.]
Bullshit.
Office Blues
Matt Taylor
DAVID MARSH, early 30s
DAVID spent a decade in the United States Marine Corps before leaving at the age of 30. He soon found work as a salesman for a large stationary company and often finds himself having to listen to the endless complaints of Sean Walsh, a dour, self-entitled twenty-something he shares a small cubicle with when he is working out of the office. The pair get along well enough, but DAVID is constantly exasperated by Sean’s consistent complaints and often mocks him for his grim “the world is against me” demeanor.
DAVID Yeah, I’m alright, thanks Sean.
Ever since I left the Marines, I have a hard time feeling sorry for myself just because it’s another regular Monday morning at the office.
I was in for almost a decade, yeah. I actually completed two full tours of Afghanistan. The first one involved doing nothing more than walking up and down some hills for six months, and the most dangerous thing my unit encountered was a donkey. Unfortunately, I went back for my second tour a few years later and I almost got blown to bits while I sat on the toilet.
And I really did, yeah; a rocket landed about twenty feet away from me while I was taking a dump.
Actually, it was good timing on their part, because when I shit myself in fear I was perfectly placed to get rid of my bodily waste. It would have been much more embarrassing if I had shit myself while I was eating breakfast or chatting with a policeman or something.
Apparently that’s what happens during an insurgency, though. The enemy pack up all their shit and go on an extended fishing holiday when they know the whole military machine is en route. Then they just wait until the troops have started to get scaled back and everyone is getting bored and the next thing you know ten thousand enraged fighters are trying to chop you into bits because they think God likes that kind of behavior.
It’s funny—they never seem to run out of suicide bombers, either, as you would think that they might struggle to find employees for that sort of job. They must have a PR team that would put Apple’s to shame, because the mad fuckers fly into Afghanistan from all around the world just to volunteer for human-bomb duty. I never understood it until I met some of the locals and they told me that they were prohibited from drinking alcohol and everyone had more than one wife, and then it made perfect sense. If I had four fucking mothers-in-law and I was never allowed a beer, I’d probably be happy to scatter myself across a battlefield as well.
Honestly, if I went on patrol a hundred times during my second tour, I got shot at on ninety-nine of them. And after it was so quiet the first time around, I was a bit pissed off that I was actually going to be fighting for my life and not simply working on my tan again. Fortunately, the Taliban’s training school isn’t as efficient as its PR department, because the vast majority of them couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a shovel let alone put a bullet in you from three hundred yards. Plus, you aren’t standing still when people are shooting at you, either; you are running for cover like your life depends on it—and obviously it fucking does, because someone is trying to fill you full of holes with an AK-47.
So yeah anyway, it’s not so bad sitting in an air-conditioned office, man, even if the money sucks and the manager is a bit of a dick, at least you can use the bathroom without fear of ending up shy a leg or an arm. Try and think on what I said the next time we run out of creamer or you get pissed off because the air-conditioning is playing up. There are plenty of worse places to be than here, even if you have to share a room with a miserable bastard like me.
So . . . are you going to pass me that stapler or are you worried I’m going to have a flashback and bludgeon you to death with it?
A True Gentleman
Leah Mann
THE GENTLEMAN, 30s
THE GENTLEMAN, beefy with too much hair gel, wearing slacks and a shiny button down shirt that’s looking worse for the wear, sprawls on a hard bench against the wall of the cell. He watches another guy piss in the corner.
THE GENTLEMAN Shit, man, what’d you eat? Oh, asparagus? Yeah, I heard about that smelly pee thing. Something chemical, right? My piss is probably like straight beer right now. I outta bottle that shit up, right? Sell it to hipsters on tap—locally made and shit. Ha-ha.
[Beat.]
Fuck, my head hurts. They ain’t got a medicine cabinet or coffee hiding anywhere? Man, I been in jail before, but the drunk tank—this be a first for me.
[Beat.]
Ain’t even my fault! Just tryin’ to be a gentleman and have a good time and shit. Like women don’t want you to be a man no more.
[Beat.]
I’m dating this girl, and tonight was our third date and out of nowhere she’s just in a shit mood and jumping all over everything I say. So then I’m trying to be nice and calm her down, right?
[Beat.]
I just wanna have fun. It’s my night off, I got some cash in my pocket, a beautiful girl on my arm . . . So it’s raining, which I don’t know how long you been in this windowless box here so maybe you don’t know but it’s been raining for like three days—but it’s that misty rain that makes the streets pretty like in those old movies.
[Beat.]
She’s wearing heels and a dress so I’m being polite—I keep moving around so I’m on the outside and she won’t get splashed or hurt or nothing. That’s manners, man. I offer her my coat, she says she don’t need it. But I know she’s cold in that dress so I give her my coat even though she says she don’t want it. Then we get to this bar but we’re going to this secret room in the back and she ain’t never been there. Well I’m all like, ladies first, ladies first . . . you know that shit, women love?
[Beat.]
And out of fucking nowhere she blows up at me. She pushes me in front because “she don’t know where she’s going and it’s not polite, it’s just annoying for me to be herding her along like a sheep when it’d be so much easier for me to just walk in front since I know where the secret door is and she didn’t want my coat so why don’t I listen to her. She’s not a liar, if she says she isn’t cold she isn’t cold and it’s disrespectful to be pushy like that and she’s not a child either and doesn’t need help walking down the fucking street—she’s been walking down the street by herself her whole life and she’s not looking for a nanny or some man who thinks she’s like some pathetic, helpless little girl.”
[Beat.]
And I’m standing there like what the hell is happening right now because I’m just treating her like a lady, like my mama taught me, and she’s going on about being objectified and how I don’t even see her as a real, actual, individual human being but that she’s just some girl whose feelings and thoughts are irrelevant to how I act towards her and then tears off my coat and puts it over my shoulders like I’m a girl—which was pretty fuckin’ funny because she’s like a foot shorter than me and was trying to make this dramatic point but she could barely reach high enough to get the coat on my shoulders without it falling off—and then she spins around and is like, “What, you aren’t gonna open the door for me? ’Cause apparently my tits mean my arms don’t work as well as a man’s.” And she’s gone.
[Beat.]
Yeah. Seriously. So I go into the secret bar in back all by myself because at least I still got cash in my pocket—more now that I’m not buying this girl drinks. I’m sitting at the bar with my beer and there’s this couple in a booth, pretty good looking and you can tell the girl is bored, like whatever this dude is saying is only funny in his head but she’s trying to be nice and every time he pauses she tries to change the subject or say something and he just talks over her—meanwhile he’s touching her hair and getting her free drinks.
[Beat.]
And that shit makes me think. You know, like really think about what my girl had been saying and how I treat girls.
[Beat.]
I mean right there—“girls.” She’s a grown-ass woman. She got a job and pay her own bills and take care of herself and she’s right, she don’t need help walking down the street. I start thinking about the little things I been saying and doing without realizing what they mean, you know, how they be taken by the other person and fuck if it don’t turn out I’m an asshole. I ain’t no white knight or gentleman ’cause I treated them all the same even though they different people and that’s all she was saying. It’s not about her tits or ass or ovaries or whatever—I mean those are great for certain activities but she want to be a person.
[Beat.]
My mind is all blown, I mean, shit, I just blew my own mind! Deep fucking epiphany and self-realization.
[Beat.]
I’m all amped up and then that couple from the booth gets up and I’m behind them ’cause I got a plan. I’m gonna go to that girl’s house like in the movies and be standing in the rain and tell her she was right and I get it now and to give me another chance and I won’t never condescend or nothing to her again.
[Beat.]
So the dude from this couple pushes in front of the girl to open the door for her so she has to stand there and wait while he does it and she’s rolling her eyes, I can see it. So I’m like, “Bro, don’t open the door for her, she’s a grown-up, she got it.” He gets up in my face for being rude and he’s just being a gentleman and it ain’t my business anyways.
[Beat.]
One thing led to another and here I am. Drunk and disorderly.
[Beat.]
He ain’t such a man he can take a punch; I guess holding doors is easier.
[Beat.]
Course I also pissed on him, which was definitely not polite or mature. But it’s all good, because I’m using this time in here smelling your asparagus pee and the puke to think about what being a man means and soon as I’m out I’m buying that girl a hot new dress and a gourmet dinner to prove I’m a changed man. Girls love that shit.
Project Disaster
Chris Quintos
JAVIER, mid-20s to mid-30s
JAVIER is a contestant on a Project Runway–like reality TV show.
JAVIER WHAT IN THE HOLY SWEET MOTHER OF EFF IS KENDRA MAKING? WHAT. IS. SHE. MAKING?!?! Is it a dress? Is it a skirt? Is it a plane?
[JAVIER makes an Incorrect buzz sound.]
It’s a visual affront. That’s what it is. It’s Rude. With a capital R. I mean, it’s like if a starving, blind monkey ravaged a bag of Cheetos, but, like, ugly. RIGHT? Am I alone in thinking that? God, if only the whole thing was Cheetos Orange, I think Kendra would be in a better place. I mean, orange IS the new black. But blah-blah brown and drab green trim? What was she thinking? She clearly wasn’t. I mean—the emperor can’t design clothes! The emperor can’t even pick a good textile! Hello! Oh my god. I could talk about that monstrosity all day. Rude. Capital R-U-D-E. I know I shouldn’t—
[To producer.]
This is going to make me look terrible, isn’t it? Sorry, Mom! I love you! I swear I’m still a good person! Mom knows I like to talk. Sorry, Twitterverse! Well, the part of Twitter that doesn’t appreesh the fast-talking truth. #Rude. Whatever.
But like, for real—the dress!!! Or what I shall lovingly refer to as “The Sack of Sad.” Kendra has made that poor tiny beautiful model’s body look like a lumpy bag of hemp protein powder in the sale aisle of the health food store no one goes to anymore. Hemp powder is out, Kendra! #Duh. It’s tragic, really. I mean, Kendra actually has a woman’s body; you’d think she might know how to make it look good! (I mean, I don’t have one, yet I manage to do fine.)
[Winks at camera.]
Do you know any woman who wants MORE attention paid to her hips? I don’t! Not even Shakira wants that. And Shakira’s hips don’t lie. And the makeup—MY GOD. I know she was going for “sailor chic meets Bowie”—but it’s more like “sailor freak meets no one” . . . because she’s ugly. Rude, I say. R-U-D-E. Rude. That dress is rude. Follow me! @JaviSlays
Barry Franklin
Andy Goldenberg
BARRY, 20s to 40s
BARRY, a nerd of the highest order, confronts his coworker, Gary, who has been spreading nasty rumors about him around the office.
BARRY Gary, I want to talk to you about the rumors you’ve been spreading about me around the office. No, they’re rumors. They’re vicious, and they hurt me. You keep telling people that I’ve never had sex, which I did say to you . . . in confidence . . . but you didn’t let me finish. Yes, I have never had sex—while skydiving. I had the chance. Twice. With this girl. Just a girl.
Can’t even remember her name. I mean, I guess she was hot by supermodel standards. But for a supermodel, she was super jealous of all my girlfriends. My friends who were girls. But I HAVE had girlfriends who were more than friends. I’ve just never had a girlfriend—that wasn’t sex crazed.
They’re all starving for sex. You know? So I give it to them. Because you have to give them what they want, right? Girls, right? But there’s no feelings involved. I mean, I wish there were, you know? I want to settle down soon, start a family. I can’t just keep going out to dance clubs and house parties until two or three in the morning if I want to ma
ke partner. And I don’t want to let down my favorite girl friend, my mom. If I can be totally honest Gary, a woman has never touched me like my mom. What’s so funny? Oh come on Gary. Grow up! You know what I mean! I do not have sex with my mom! Gary!
Hold It In
JP Karliak
KALEB, early 20s to mid-30s
At a vegan kosher Jewish/Buddhist deli in Harlem, KALEB meets up with his very best friend from college, Tom. Wait, no, it’s Bill. Let’s just settle on Marcus. So Marcus has just shared that he’s popped the question to his longtime girlfriend Cynthia. But KALEB is more interested in his personal creative blockage. And the freedom that it brings.
KALEB Wow. Getting married. I think that’s incredible, man. No, seriously, you and Cynthia have been a long time coming. Wow. You guys at my concert, back when I was testing my acoustic work, not the overproduced wagon of crap of old. And the connection you guys had, I could see it from the stage—it had a ripeness, an aroma almost. I’m glad I could bring you together. . . . Well, maybe you’d been dating, but your relationship leveled up from my music. I wish it wasn’t so effective at relationship building—I’d feel less burdened. Shit, that was such a dark period. For me. You know, the album failure, cranking out creativity like it’s ground chuck.
But we all pass through darkness. Big, unexpected carwashes of feces. They follow me. I feel like a massive drain of creative nothingness awaits me in every random Laundromat and gastropub. Case in point, I was shopping for juice cleanses the other day . . . because let’s speak truth, if you buy just any squeezed fruit, you might as well start an IV drip of Sunny D into your veins. So much phony dreck out there. And I’m doing my research at this new place in the Flatiron District. Juice is good, but proximity to Shake Shack makes me die a little inside . . . that thing became corporate like a cancer, man, like a fucking wildfire. And, lo, one of my songs comes on in the store. That one that the Decemberists swear they wrote, but was really mine? And I had to flee. Ran home. Which is forty blocks, and not easy in my slip-ons, let me notate that, but I ran the whole way because I felt in my gut how fleeting creativity can be.
Men's Comedic Monologues That Are Actually Funny Page 3