Men's Comedic Monologues That Are Actually Funny

by Alisha Gaddis

  Okay fine, fine. Please just let me finish and then if you still feel like you want to dump me, that’s fine. I’ll just know I did my best.

  The moral of this poem is that you are my one,

  My other half, I revolve around you like a sun.

  And I hope with this poem, your heart I have won,

  And if not, I’ll just have to hang with my bros,

  And find another girl to make me some bomb-ass nachos.

  Really? That won’t make you stay? Fine. I didn’t need you anyway.

  Oh my God, I just rhymed, maybe poetry is for me!

  Oh no, Ruth. Look, you’re very nice but I don’t care about the moisture content of PF Chang’s rice! I did it again. I’m a genius! No wonder all these girls will sleep with me.

  Emo Gothic Love

  Alessandra Rizzotti

  SHAWN, 17 to 23

  SHAWN looks through a telescope, up at the sky. He’s a tall, skinny guy who is sensitive, full of love, and a lot of darkness.

  SHAWN Do you see that? That’s Saturn. Cassini is rotating around its rings right now, taking pictures of its surface. Saturn is the flattest planet with the most rings. Seems like a paradox. Like us meeting. We’re two depressed people and yet we somehow make each other happy. But not happy in a sappy way. Just in a normal “here we are existing” type of way. ’Cuz you know, being happy is annoying sometimes.

  I was really surprised by your text, ya know. I thought I’d have to suppress all my feelings about you and just be your friend like some kinda gay sidekick. But wow—you thinking I’m attractive? I never feel that way. You’re the one who’s really beautiful, you know? Inside and out—as a person. I didn’t think I could open up to anyone this way. My biggest fear is saying too much and seeing you abandon me for that. I feel like a douche canoe for saying that. God I’m so lame. . . . No, I really am.

  When you said I could come over and take a bath, I wanted to take you up on that. Like I really did want to put cucumbers on my face and pretend like I was a woman for a night. I wanted you to paint my nails and tell me stories. Because that felt right. To be with you, vulnerable, in an intimate, raw way. You said I have a feminine power and wow, why not embrace that, right? Is that fucking weird? You know, I’ve never liked a girl till I met you. I didn’t think I could ever do it, because my mom is such a bitch that my opinion of women is whatever. I mean, not of you. You’re special. But ya, I’ve never liked girls. I’ve never liked guys. I’ve always just been asexual. You make me feel different though.

  I got out of the house yesterday just to walk. I never go out. I saw some geese and ducks, said hey what’s up, and I was proud of myself for taking that step and seeing the sun and just being my pasty-ass self getting super sunburned. Listening to mariachi by the park and wishing I was Mexican, when I’m just a really tall, feminist machismo man that could be mistaken for a KKK member. God, being in the KKK seems like such an easy thing to do. Great for stupid people to feel like they belong to something. Ha-ha . . . ugh, if only we could feel like we all belonged somewhere, am I right?? It’s hard being smart, don’t you think? I feel judged a lot. I feel like I’ll never amount to anything, when really I have all the potential in the world.

  You make me comfortable enough to say that—to admit that I feel inadequate. [Starts to cry.] God . . . I’m crying like I’m some kinda emotionally retarded baby. I don’t do that in front of people . . . but I feel myself around you. I let my guard down and it feels right to embrace that side of me. The entire world crashes in front of my face, but I somehow remain calm knowing I’m here with you.

  [He looks through the telescope.]

  Check it out. Saturn’s rings are vibrating through the telescope. It makes me think of holding you tight against my chest. Oh man, here I am crying and all I really want to do is just kiss you. Would you want that? I feel weird asking, “Can I kiss you?” because in my mind, we should both want that, at the same time. The gravitational pull between us should be clear, vocally, you know? I feel it, but do you? . . . It’s okay. I understand. I should probably stop crying first. I’m such an idiot sometimes. But man, you’re wonderful. I’d want to date you if you ever felt like that was something you’d want to do.

  You would? Wow. Can I hold your hand right now? I just want to squeeze you.

  Release Those Endorphins

  Matt Taylor

  GREG WILSON, 35

  GREG WILSON is a fit and healthy 35-year-old who occasionally drinks far more than is good for him. Intensely cynical by nature, he sporadically mixes bouts of intense physical exercise with lengthy drinking sessions, as he cannot figure out which is better for him—after all, what do trained medical professionals know? Here, Greg is drinking in his local pub with his good friend Adam Garcia. The pair went to school together but Adam is much lazier; he is also famously cheap and often tries to skip paying for his round at the bar. When he complains bitterly about knocking his last beer over, GREG loses his cool—there are worse things in the world than spilling a beer.

  GREG Jesus, you think you have had a bad day just because you knocked your last pint over?! The gym is more dangerous than the pub, trust me. I was in 24 Hour Fitness yesterday and some deranged fitness guru silently challenged me to a treadmill death bout.

  You know how it goes. You get on a machine and start on a pleasant, easygoing jog, then suddenly a taller, buffer, and frankly, far better looking guy gets onto the treadmill next to you and gives you that look. That sort of “let us battle for ownership of the virile females in this building” look that only buff, spandex-wearing gym queens throw at people.

  Well, actually you don’t know how it goes, because your ass never leaves that stool, but trust me, it happens. Usually to short, fat people that start sweating the moment they hang their towel off the machine.

  Anyway, he proceeded to ape my movements and speed to the letter, and when I further elevated the treadmill a few minutes later, he copied that, too. At this point, I gave the aggressively domineering male to my left a quick questioning glance, and he inclined his head slightly towards me as if to say “what else have you got, you saggy waste of skin?” As childish as it seems, I rose to the bait and decided to try and show this young upstart that despite having a slightly larger ass and a rapidly retreating hairline, guys our age aren’t over the hill just yet.

  Ten minutes later, my would-be destroyer and I had ceased any pretense of coincidence and we were essentially locked in a grip of death despite being three feet apart. The next thirty minutes was a genuinely soul-crushing effort. I would rather have been jogging through the embers of my recently burned down house than challenging the guy who stood next to me, but it was too late to back out now. No matter which settings I chose on the machine (that was now the bane of my existence), my leaner, obviously fitter tormentor matched me. And so began an unspoken battle of wills, where neither of us spoke, but we both silently acknowledged that we were savagely butting heads in a battle that first began when our ancestors first crawled from the primordial ooze eons ago.

  At the forty-minute mark, my shirt was so wet it looked like I had been blasted off my feet with a riot hose before entering the gym, and I was running up a treadmill that was so savagely inclined that I felt like I was powering up a rubber version of the steep side of K2. I was flailing my arms like a burning break-dancer and smashing my feet so hard into the treadmill that my teeth were slowly vibrating out of my skull, yet still he pursued me. At this point, my heart was hammering against my rib cage and I genuinely thought I was going to faint. This would be less of an issue if we were running through green meadows as God intended, but such an act here would see my vomit and blood-soaked cadaver thrown across the gym and into the free weights area forty feet away. Anyway, for whatever reason, I was still unwilling to do the smart thing and concede.

  Approximately four and a half minutes later, just as I was giving up all hope
of leaving the gym alive, my nameless tormentor finally gave his head a shake, and then knocked 5 or 6 kilometers an hour off of his machine. I carried on as best I could, desperate to try to show that I was above such a childish display of machismo and we were never really competing at all. I mean, surely because he had instigated the whole thing I could simply plead ignorance and be the better man. I could simply pretend that I regularly went for a peaceful, leisurely jog, and then proceeded to run at a pace that blasted my shins to bits and almost caused me to shit my shorts.

  As I slowed my machine down, the sadist to my left gave me a grin, shook his head slightly, and brought his machine to a halt. He then grabbed his towel and his keys, leapt from the machine in a sort of sprightly “fuck it, I think I’ll go for a swim instead” sort of fashion, and made his way towards the exit with a fair sheen of sweat but looking none the worse for wear.

  The same could not be said for myself, however, as despite feeling merely light-headed when I got off the treadmill, I suddenly felt extremely ill when I stood upon solid ground. I began staggering while simultaneously looking as if I was clutching a pencil between my ass cheeks, and made my way to the changing room quivering like an alcoholic with Parkinson’s disease.

  Not wanting to faint or vomit in front of any of the other men present, I made for a bathroom stall as swiftly as my recently liquefied kneecaps would allow. Mercifully, it was empty, and I stumbled into a cubicle, collapsed next to the porcelain, and spewed acid and bile into the pan. I then started shaking uncontrollably and drifted in and out of consciousness for about ten minutes before I finally had the strength to operate the door handle.

  As I passed the mirrors on the way to the exit on unsteady legs, I caught a glimpse of my pallid, green-tinged reflection, and found myself wondering two things. First of all, if I was the victor of this impromptu battle, why did I feel so demoralized and dejected? And secondly, if exercising is so good for your health, why did I look like a recently reanimated corpse?

  I never look that shitty when I sit on this barstool all day.

  A Little Fresh Air

  Mark Harvey Levine

  A MAN, 20s to 40s

  A MAN is at a park. He has a stroller with him. In the stroller is his infant son.

  NOTE: Both the stroller and the infant in the stroller can be mimed.

  A MAN So here we are, getting a little fresh air. We feel you need air. Apparently there’s no air in the apartment, so we’re out here getting air.

  [Beat.]

  It’s interesting. You can get away with a lot in public. I mean, look at you. You can barely sit up straight. You’re drooling. You may be relieving yourself right here. You’re like a drunk. If I did any of that, on a bench in the park, they’d lock me up. I’d be one of the lunatics, talking to myself.

  [Beat.]

  Oh, God, I am one of the lunatics, talking to myself.

  [Beat.]

  I envy you, y’know. You get the full spectrum of emotions, from absolute devastation to unfettered happiness. Sometimes all in the space of about five seconds. I mean, when you cry, you cry with everything your tiny little heart can muster. And here’s me, at my sister’s funeral: [Subdued.] “Yes . . . thank you . . . it was very sudden . . .” When you’re happy, you laugh with your whole body. And here’s me, being complimented: “Oh, no, you’re too kind.” You get to experience heartbreak and pure joy. We get . . . everything in between.

  I mean, I can do without the heartbreak, but where’s my pure joy? Why don’t I get pure joy? I could use some pure joy right now. Where is it? Where is it? And you get to sit in a park and cry your eyes out, or laugh hysterically, and nobody runs away. Far from it. Women now come to us. Beautiful women walk right up to us. Now, at the very moment when I obviously no longer need them, women are approaching me. Where were you in high school?

  [Beat.]

  Here comes one now. Of course, the irony is, instead of wanting to flirt with them, some bizarre protective gene has kicked in and every woman is now a potential baby snatcher. There are these chemicals in my brain left over from caveman days. A stranger is approaching. Must protect you. Must. Protect. My only chance is to break both her knees and maybe one of her hands before she can grab the kid.

  [He starts talking very fast and serious.]

  She’s approaching from the east. If she gets one hand on the kid I can still uppercut her jaw and—

  [The lady says something complimentary about the baby as she passes.]

  [Sheepishly.] Thank you.

  [And she’s gone.]

  Of course he’s cute. He’s extremely cute. He’s incredibly cute. He’s adorable. And I’m going insane. I’m going insane. And you . . . you’re trying to tell me something. What? What?

  [Beat.]

  I have no idea what you’re trying to say! But you seem very intent. And you’re drooling. Again with the drool. Why do you need so much saliva? You’re on an all-liquid diet! Here, wipe your mouth for goodness sakes.

  [He takes a cloth from the stroller and wipes the baby’s face.]

  Okay, let go of the cloth. Let go of the cloth. Let go of the cloth.

  [Beat.]

  Alright, let go of my hand. Let go of my hand. C’mon, let go of—Fine. Hold onto my hand, if it makes you happy.

  [Beat.]

  It does make you happy, doesn’t it?

  [Beat.]

  Oh. There it is. There it is.

  Robert Before the Interview

  Chrissy Swinko

  ROBERT, 30 to 35

  A modern and sparse office waiting area. There are a few chairs and a side table with a bowl of candy. ROBERT enters, wearing business attire and holding his résumé in a folder. He is old enough to know himself and what he is good at, but he has experienced enough that he is super frustrated and lost some of his youthful enthusiasm.

  ROBERT Yes, of course I’ll wait. I understand she’s a very busy woman. I’m just thankful for the opportunity to discuss how I can contribute to your success. Suugo is on the forefront of technology and I would love to be part of the team.

  Yes, I know you’re the receptionist. Hah! That’s funny. You’re right, I should save my answers for the interview. Thank you.

  [He watches her exit and then sits.]

  Come on, Robert! Idiot! Don’t blow this.

  [He takes in a deep breath, then exhales. Deep breath in, then exhales. He looks at his watch.]

  Oh. Of course I have to wait. I’m too early. I should have waited outside. Gotten a cup of coffee. Walked around the block. Well, I’ve done it again. Now they think I’m too eager. Well, I am. I need this job or—I—I—

  [He takes in a deep breath, then exhales. Deep breath in, then exhales. Takes out his résumé to review it. He puts it back into his folder. He notices the bowl of candy.]

  No, that’s probably not for me.

  [He looks more closely.]

  Chocolates, mints, butterscotches. Huh. Could probably have one or two before she comes back.

  [He looks at his watch.]

  Wait, no. I know what this is. Suugo is famous for their interview techniques. It’s a test. I bet they count how many are in there before and after they make people sit in this waiting room. How come I’m the only one in here? They’re probably watching through that mirror.

  Oh no. They’ve probably been listening to me talk to myself. Why do I do this? Ruin every opportunity.

  [He takes in a deep breath, then exhales. Takes out his résumé to review it. He puts it back into his folder. He stands up slowly and approaches the candy bowl. He very slowly selects one piece of candy. He looks toward the door as he puts it into his mouth. He grabs another piece and eats it. He talks to the mirror.]

  You know, you’re supposed to tell someone when they’re being recorded. It’s the law the last time I checked. And I’m an excellent progr
ammer, so really you’re the ones missing out just because I failed your “candy bowl” test. I work with computers, not people; I’m not good at being “normal”—whatever that means—

  [He grabs more candy and eats it.]

  I don’t understand why I can’t just be left alone with my programs and why do I have to talk to some HR person when I could just show you if you gave me fifteen minutes with your coding system!

  [He grabs more candy and eats it. He is startled when the receptionist returns. He speaks with his mouth full of candy.]

  Hi! Yes, it is very good, thank you. Better me than you? Oh—hah—that is funny. Yes, I do have an extra copy of my résumé. Um—while you’re here, actually—can I ask you a question about that mirror?

  Hostage Negotiator

  Leah Mann

  JUDD, 20s

  JUDD—young, handsome, entitled, and vaguely annoyed—sits on the floor of a bank lobby. A bank robber points a gun at JUDD’s head.

  JUDD That is that? Nine millimeter? Not much of a gun man; myself—never really understood the appeal. I prefer to fight with my hands. Now the martial arts, that’s something. You KNOW your opponent. Hand-to-hand combat is the most visceral game of chess you’ll ever play.