Men's Comedic Monologues That Are Actually Funny

by Alisha Gaddis

[Beat.]

  Do you have to point that in my face? It’s very aggressive. You could point it at my chest, still effective, slightly less off-putting . . .

  [Beat.]

  . . . thank you. You look nervous, I’m sure it’s going well. Your partner seemed very confident. That’s half the battle. Everyone I’ve ever met who’s moved up in the world was a cocky, self-entitled asshole. Nice guys finish last, which makes you a smart man.

  [Beat.]

  Not an insult, you’re in good company, not to mention the balls it takes to pull off a heist like this . . . very impressive. You don’t hear about a lot of bank robberies these days. The real robbers are the bankers, am I right? And if it’s not some fat cat with a golden parachute cheating you, it’s credit card fraud, hackers, that sort of thing. Less threat of bodily harm, I suppose. So respect, from me to you.

  [Beat.]

  Now me, I’m what you’d call privileged, so I never worried too much about money and I’m too lazy to get into finance and do all the work it takes to play the system.

  [Beat.]

  Ransom?

  [Beat.]

  Nah, it’s been done before. I doubt my dad would go for it a third time. The second time was already a tough sell, plus, we had a fight last week. Is that another chopper? They’re going all out. Someone’s getting his fifteen minutes of fame today! Me, I don’t like being the center of attention. It comes with so many expectations.

  [Beat.]

  I remember back in the day when I was still hitting the clubs and booze, cruising on daddy’s boat, the paparazzi would be all over me and my sisters, mostly my sisters. You couldn’t forget your panties or impregnate a socialite without the whole world judging you. The world was a better place before social media and the twenty-four-hour news cycle.

  [Beat.]

  I’m sorry, am I talking too much? I’m not trying to distract you. I don’t do well with silence, and other than that woman’s sobbing it’s like a library in here. No! Don’t point the gun at her, it’ll only encourage her.

  [Beat.]

  And now the gun is floating back up to my face . . . We can’t keep it at my chest? No problem, your call.

  [Beat.]

  It sounds like it’s getting serious out there. Is your partner getting anywhere with those demands? If you let us go—not being pushy, just practical—I could hook you up with a ride somewhere. You could even take the boat out to international waters, or the jet . . . the jet is nice . . . anywhere you want as long as the jet comes back when you’re done. It’s very expensive. Of course, you’d still need a cab or bus to get to the airfield . . . forget it, too complicated.

  [Beat.]

  Um, look, I have to sneeze and I don’t want to bang my head into that thing and cause a mess. Give me a few inches? Thanks.

  [Beat.]

  Ahh . . . Ahh . . .

  [Beat.]

  Never mind, it went away. Look, realistically, at this point, you’re caught. There are cops swarming outside and probably a SWAT team getting ready to crawl through the vents, and the longer this goes on, the bigger the consequences. Trust me, once I fake-kidnapped my gerbil to get sympathy from my mom and by the time I came clean six weeks later, little Virgil was dead and all I got was grounded.

  [Beat.]

  I’m not trying to get in your head—like I said, I talk when I’m nervous. Obviously you get real quiet when you’re nervous. And other people whimper and sob. All reasonable reactions to an extreme situation.

  [Beat.]

  All I’m saying is the writing’s on the wall. In my experience, and this is my third hostage situation, the best way to save your ass is to cut a deal and turn on your partner. Look out for number one, you know what I’m saying? If you don’t, he will.

  [Beat.]

  Go on, call the cops. You can use my phone.

  [Beat.]

  My pleasure, man. While you’re doing that, do you think you could untie the teller for like five minutes? I really have to withdraw some cash . . . outstanding debts, and whatnot . . .

  [The robber whacks him in the head with the gun.]

  Ow! Fine, I’ll wait. I should have used the ATM. Just give the phone back when you’re done. I have some incriminating evidence of my own on there, if you know what I mean.

  Teacher’s Lounge

  Gina Nicewonger

  COACH TANNER, middle aged

  COACH TANNER is chaperoning a class camping field trip. He is talking with a student in the teachers’ lounge at the camping lodge.

  COACH TANNER Hey, Calvin. Having a good time on the camping trip? It is very cold. I’m aware that all of the outdoor activities have been cancelled. Actually, even though I’m a teacher, I do agree that it feels like we are all trapped inside with nothing to do.

  “Prison” is a bit extreme, Calvin.

  No. I’ve never been to prison. Do you think they’d really hire me to be a coach if I had? At least they have a gift shop. That’s one thing that looks like the website.

  I don’t know. What’d you get? A sweatshirt?

  Geez, okay. I just thought you might want something warm. Neither of us wants to be reminded of this place. God, it’s so hard to make small talk with you.

  You got a mood ring. They still make those? So, what’s you’re mood then?

  Just tell me if you want to tell me.

  Your mood is sensual? Listen, Calvin, I don’t know if we should be having a conversation like this. If you have some questions about how your body works or whatever, we can talk, but maybe when more people are around. This is NOT how I was hoping this week would go. Please, don’t confess anything to me right now. I don’t think I can handle it. Do you even know what “sensual” means?

  I think “sensual” means something a little different than “passionate about art” or whatever.

  Fine. Fine! You’re sensual. But I swear to god, Calvin. If you go home and tell your parents we had a conversation about how sensual you are, I’m going to be out of a job and you’re going to end up with a coach you like even less than me. We’ll see how sensual you feel when they actually make you play sports in PE.

  You’re right. I’ll never be sensual, and you sure as heck won’t ever be a jock. I did used to care about things, you know. Maybe not the same thing you’re passionate about, but still.

  For Manifred

  Leah Mann

  HIS MAJESTY THE KING, middle aged

  HIS MAJESTY THE KING addresses his army and loyal subjects from his castle balcony. The KING is middle aged and not particularly attractive, but he holds himself with authority. His voice booms with leadership and confidence.

  HIS MAJESTY THE KING Loyal citizens, valiant warriors, beloved subjects.

  [Beat.]

  Today we go to war. We fight for freedom, we fight for our land, and we fight for love. In the face of darkness, we will be the light. In the black of night, I, your shining beacon, will lead you into the dawn. Some of you will die, and many of you will be brutally maimed.

  [Beat.]

  Some of you will know what it is to send your cold swords into the hot flesh of the enemy. You will watch as the life drains from their eyes and it will change your spirit forever. Others will know the feeling of steel sheathed in your belly, the gurgling of blood in your throat as you desperately try to shove your intestines back into your stomach. You will see your comrades fall and know your women and children at home are mourning. Wives, sisters, and daughters will be left to fend for themselves, to scrimp for food.

  [Beat.]

  Some of your wives will undoubtedly turn to prostitution to provide for their fatherless babes. Your children may wither away or find themselves sold into slavery. Your mothers’ wailing will echo through our villages. Our crops will be watered with the tears of those left behind—as this field is fertilized with the
rich loam of your blood.

  [Beat.]

  In the face of this danger and inevitable suffering, you stand strong behind me—well, in front of me—steady in your resolve.

  [Beat.]

  Our enemy has affronted us most terribly. Every moment we wait, my darling jester—bringer of laughter and joy to my heart—is being cruelly held against his will.

  [Beat.]

  Manifred is well known to you all as the smile that brightens our kingdom and my dearest companion.

  [Choking up.]

  It brings bile to my mouth to think of our enemies chortling at his pratfalls; despair to the pit of my stomach to think of his witticisms entertaining their unworthy masses; and fury to my brow that the nefarious, putrid King Xander should gaze upon Manifred’s most jovial and perfect of faces.

  [Beat.]

  Those of you who have spent time at court have been privy to Manifred’s good humor. You know well how he dotes on your king with the passion of a loyal subject. You’ve witnessed his impeccable dance moves. Indeed, even the lowliest among you was swept up by the classic choreography he created for my coronation, performing his work with glee around bonfires, thousands of your arms reaching for the sky in unison whilst you jumped and frolicked in celebration of me.

  [Beat.]

  I have my critics who claim this war is a folly, driven by vanity and lust. Their spiteful tongues spew lies of Manifred’s fidelity. They say my love’s freedom to remain in service to his king is not worth thousands of lives—your lives. But I know none of these critics stand before me today. You are the true of heart.

  [Beat.]

  Today you fight for our shared future. A kingdom is not made up of one man, but of many—and it may not be righteously ruled by one, but by several.

  [Beat.]

  Self-knowledge is second only to love. I am your king, yes, descended from gods and destined to rule you, but I am not perfect. Nay, I am partially human and therefore flawed. My overwhelming sense of duty, of justice, and my dedication to my country have rendered me solemn and at times sorrowful. It is only with Manifred at my side that I can rule as a complete man, a man who experiences love and lightness in addition to the burdens of my position. Would you have a melancholy king?

  [Beat.]

  No! Would you have a king with an empty heart?

  [Beat.]

  No! Would you leave your kingdom without its very soul?

  [Beat.]

  NO!

  [Beat.]

  And so today you fight. You tell our enemy that we will not be stomped on! We will not be stolen from! We will have our joy back no matter the cost! Stand in front of me and face the swords and arrows of those that would darken our lands! Let your hearts be pierced by spears so that mine may be full once again! Today we dive into battle full of courage, our spirits lifted as we rise up and shout—For king! For Country! FOR MANIFRED!

  About Mom

  Eitan Loewenstein

  CHUCK, 40s

  CHUCK, who lives in Middle America, stands in front of his teenage son in the family room of their home. He gestures for his son to sit.

  CHUCK Son, sit down. No, not there, that chair is almost about to break. Not there either—I just washed those cushions. That’s fine, just watch your elbows. Tuck ’em.

  [Beat.]

  You probably noticed that your mother isn’t here having this conversation with us. Normally, for things like this she would be, but not today. Because she’s dead. Really dead. Just keeled over right in that chair.

  [CHUCK points to the second chair.]

  That’s why I had to wash it. You understand. Now you probably have a lot of questions about your mother and death. Well, I came up with a few bullet points I think will answer most everything. Number one, there is no afterlife. Your mother has no soul. Every part of her is completely gone except for a cold hunk of flesh that is now laying in the earth. Which brings us to number two: you missed the funeral. It was this morning. I was going to wake you up, but you got in pretty late last night so I let you rest. Number three . . . Nope, that was it. Oh, you’re probably wondering how she died. It’s a funny story. Well, not for her. Or for us, really. It was cancer. Or a heart attack. I always mix those two up. A moment of silence.

  [Beat.]

  Alright, on to new business. Since your mother is gone, I figure I should start dating again. Not today, obviously. I need some time to plan and get a haircut. Maybe next week. I’ve prepared . . .

  [CHUCK pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket.]

  . . . a list of your ex-girlfriends I’d like to take a run at. If there’s anybody on this list that mentioned how sexy I was in passing or seemed to have a thing for older men . . . just put a little check next to their names.

  [Tries to hand the paper to the son, who doesn’t take it. CHUCK puts the paper back in his pocket.]

  You can get that later. Like I said. No real rush or anything. It’s not like I have cancer.

  [CHUCK pauses and looks at his son.]

  You seem upset. Distraught even. That seems fair. She was your mother. Although, if I’m able to give some constructive criticism, being sad that your mother has died is a bit of a cliché. You’re a very unique kid; I was just hoping that uniqueness would extend to your grieving. But hey, that’s the fun of parenting. Discovering new things about your kids every single day.

  [Beat.]

  I got a coupon for a free game of bowling. We could go, take your mind off of this whole death thing. I know, it’s a big scam since you still have to rent shoes. I mean, where else in the universe do you rent shoes? Can you imagine? Driving is free, but you have to rent a car!

  [Beat.]

  I already cleared her stuff out of the closet. You should see how big it looks now. It’s amazing. I can separate my suits out from my casual stuff. I’m going to be much better dressed now that I can see all of my clothing at once. Which is important because I’m back on the market. I have to look my best.

  [Beat. CHUCK really thinks about what he’s been saying.]

  Huh. Wow. Maybe this joy, these plans for the future . . . maybe I’m just covering up the deep pain of losing the woman I love. This isn’t right. This isn’t how a person is supposed to act. I’m sorry. I should have been . . . oh my god. This isn’t how you needed to hear about your mother’s passing . . . it’s not how I should have . . . I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .

  THAT I WAS KIDDING! HA! Oh my god, the look on your face. The look! You were so sad! Like when you were a baby and I broke your fire truck. The saddest! You cried for hours. Your mother isn’t dead! For real. She’s alive. She just left early this morning for work. Lighten up.

  But she does have cancer.

  New Roommate

  Gina Nicewonger

  JESSE, 20s to 30s

  JESSE is showing the house to a potential roommate. They are talking in the kitchen.

  JESSE This, obviously, is the kitchen. So as you can see, it’s a pretty cool place to live. We’re five, hopefully six, grown men. Respectful, laid-back, mature men. And everybody’s really fun too, but I don’t want you to think it’s just a party house. We’re all adults. Seems like the keg’s not tapped. If you want some, help yourself.

  Anyway, none of us really thought we’d live in a communal living situation like this after college, but you know, living in a big city is expensive. You and I would share a bathroom. It’s through that door. I wouldn’t go in. It’s a little messy. You know how it is. I thought I’d clean it after work, but it actually takes a while to scrub sharpie penises off of all your toiletries. Yes, I said all. There’s literally a penis on everything I own in there. That’s true dedication, really. We’re a real committed group of mature guys.

  So your room is the one at then end of the hall. It does come furnished. No bed. Just a hammock. I’ve heard it’s great if
you have any joint problems. Don’t be ashamed to admit it. All us mature guys understand. Surprisingly, not an issue for bringing lady friends over, either. They go in and out of this house like you would not believe.

  Anyway, like I said. We’re hoping to fill the room by the end of the week and we really feel you’d fit in. Clearly, you’re also a nice, mature guy who doesn’t have a criminal record. If you did, that would be bad, right? Because between you and me, the cops are here a lot.

  The Cook

  Tanner Efinger

  ANDREW, 39

  ANDREW is the head chef in a busy, well-respected restaurant. He’s worked in kitchens for twenty-four years and, as many chefs do, he has a problem controlling his temper. He is currently in a therapist’s office speaking to a therapist about his rage issues.

  ANDREW I don’t even know why I’m here.

  I mean. Yes. I know I’m here because I was forced to . . . Alright, fine. It is required of me by my employers to resolve my anger-management issues. I’m not angry.

  Hey. Don’t look at me, pal. This is just the industry. When I was a young chef I was bullied. And my head chef was bullied when he was starting out, too. It’s a vicious cycle. I didn’t say it was fair. It just is.

  What did I do? . . . I hit the kitchen porter with an eggplant.

  Look. I can’t expect you to understand. You work in a pillow. You talk about feelings in an air-conditioned office with all the comforts of heaven . . . what is this? A stapler. Yea.

  I don’t just cook. You know? I don’t just throw some Tater Tots in the oven and squeeze some ranch dressing into fucking ramekins, you know. I’m an artist. An artist in a high-pressure, hot, highly criticized, did I mention hot, environment. I deal in burns and cuts and sweat and knives and flame. And you? You deal in staplers.

  The pressure? You want me to talk about the pressure? Fine. It comes in bursts. And when it comes, it smacks you in the face like a frying pan. Ticket after ticket after ticket. Sautéed scallops, chargrilled pigeon, Icelandic salted cod, squeeze of lemon, shoulder of suckling pig, pickled vegetables, bacon popcorn . . . Are you writing this down? Because I’m not done.