Simple Things - Comedy Monologue

S I M P L E   T H I N G S

BY Paul William Fassett 

I was watching. Watching them. They look like people. Move like people. Talk like people. I guess that makes them people but regardless of the outer shell, they just don't seem right. Their heads buried into a shiny black device, poking at their tiny screens with their fingers like they are piloting the Starship Enterprise through an asteroid belt.


Were we meant to be like this?


I mean, can't you imagine a time when people did things? Big things... Like... I don't know... Built shit? We live in a time where we can fly to other states, even across the oceans to get to other countries, and someone had to make that thing. The plane. Someone invented that. I mean when you consider that someone invented a flying vehicle, it's like, well what have you done lately right?


Computer chip? Fuck you! Can it fly?


Ipad? Fuck you! Can I seat a hundred people on it and shuttle them like a heavenly chariot across the ocean to a land where they don't speak my language? Uhhh noooooo. Try again.


Cell phone? Again, fuck you! Sure you might be able to facebook your friends while you take a shit but you aren't taking a shit while thirty-thousand feet in the air now are you? Nope! I thought not.


I don't know. Just seems like people just don't do anything anymore. I mean, I know we discovered the human genome and all but seriously... Where is my personal teleporter? Seventies Sci-fi told me we would be flying in a hover car right now. What did we get instead? Angry Birds.


People have become such simple things.

I Am Sorry - Drama Monologue

Day 2 and I am posting up a drama monologue. I hope you guys like it and as always, feel free to use it for auditions with the caveat that you must tell us how it went.

I   A M   S O R R Y

BY   Paul William Fassett

There is a vicious little monster eating my insides and the doctors say I got about a month to live. In doctor speak that can mean anywhere between a day and two years but I can feel it coming. I know it's not gonna be long before I'm staring up at the ceiling with morphine pumping into my body, looking at my wife's face one last time before the days disappear and I become nothing. 

There's something that I need to tell you first and I know we haven't spoken in years but it's important that I tell someone. You, my daughter, are the child of a madman.

I could never enjoy the time we spent with each other because I was so afraid. I was always looking for a reflection of myself in your face but it never showed and I am grateful for that but I am sorry that it took so long to say this. I am sorry.

I am sorry for every missed birthday these last five years. I am sorry for every time I called you something awful. I'm sorry for every Christmas card I ever threw away and I'm sorry for every time you cried and I didn't hug you until you stopped. I'm sorry I could not accept you for who you were and whoever you chose to be with. I'm sorry for the night you came over to see me, in the rain, and tried to make things right.

I'm sorry that I slammed the door in your face.

I'm sorry that it took me until my deathbed to realize what a bastard I've been and I am sorry that this letter will not reach you in time for any of this to matter. I just wanted you to know that you were always perfect just the way you were and I was the one with all the flaws.

I'm sorry that I was disappointed in you. I was disappointed in myself and every small failure on your part was a way for me to make myself feel better. A way, through you, to make my life not seem so bad.

I've spent the last three years of my life, sitting, waiting for something, while on the inside I was dying. All I needed was to write this letter.

I'm sorry I did not do it sooner.

With love,

Your father.

Fucking Horrible - Comedy Monolgue

Hello everyone and welcome to my blog. This will be a place for me to post my many MANY monologues which I create on a daily basis. You may use them for auditions as much as you want, the only rule (if you can call it a rule) is that you have to tell us how the audition went in the comment section below.

Without further delay, I bring to you: 

F U C K I N G   H O R R I B L E

BY   Paul William Fassett

 

I have one singular love in this world and it is a simple love. It's the one thing that gets me up in the morning. That love is, you ask?

The squeegee. Yes. I love to clean my car windows.

It's the one thing that keeps me going is knowing, that no matter what happens in my life, at least I know how to get a streak free shine on my windows. See I have this special technique. I go up and down, with the spongy part. Then I go side to side with the squeegee. I never leave a single streak.

So that's why I attacked that homeless man.

He was standing there on the corner, yelling at something imaginary floating in the air around him, when he saw me. At a dead stop. The red light at Vermont and Hollywood. The one that takes forever to change... That's when I saw it. The bottle of blue stuff. Soap streak in liquid form. I wasn't going to let him take away one of the last joys I had in life so I scrambled to get my windows down. My hands out, waving, practically screaming: “No thank you!”

He kept on coming and was already half-way through the intersection when I got out of the car. I stood in front of him but he actually tried to go around me to get to my windows. That's when I pushed him. That's also when I noticed he was an old man.

So yes. I pushed down a crazy old homeless man. To be fair though, tensions were high. I had a change of heart when I saw him laying there. Might have had something to do with him screaming: “I'm trying to clean his windows! Asshole!”

That's when I noticed the car sitting next to me at the light. Hasidic guy. He was wearing one of those crazy top hats and the spiral spaghetti hair. Anyway he looked straight on down the road. Had a white knuckle grip on the steering-wheel. When the light went green he took off like a lightning bolt.

I put a hand out to help the old man up but he slapped it away and got up on his own. Called me every kind of fucker name he could think of. Like mother-fucker, cock-sucker, crazy mother-fucker. Even some colourful variations I can't quite remember. He pushed me and then told me to go: “Fuck my mother.” And given all the accusations of mother fondling before, it sounded like he was giving me a command, so I punched him.

Yes. I know. I punched an old homeless man.

I'm fucking horrible...