Penicunt - Comedy Monologue

P E N I C U N T

By: Paul William Fassett

Penis... Let the word swirl around in your head like mouth wash, then spit it out.

What a sterile sounding word, right? I prefer cock! 

Wait, that came out wrong. I mean it's a word with a little punch is all. You can almost imagine your dick with a feather mohawk and a beak clawing the eyes out of some other cock. It's a masculine word. That's the problem with society today. People are becoming walking pussies by words that are supposed to describe their fun bits. Even words like cunt. You think cock has punch, try calling someone a cunt. That's like a hard right hook to the jaw. Words create visuals, especially the ones people are afraid of. When I hear cunt, I think of a huge pot hole in the street filled with oily water, surrounded by dead birds.

Pussy though... Now that's a word I can get behind. Like a fluffy cloud floating in a big blue sky, all alone, made yellow and orange by a low hanging sun.

When I think of vagina, though, I don't imagine a warm wet playground like I would like... No. I think of some obscure village in Romania that raises sheep whose number one export are wool pelvic wigs. It's sterile, too clinical a word to be sexy.

Don't believe me? Then let me prove it. Close your eyes for just a moment and imagine this. Your girlfriend is laying on her back, naked, ready to... Receive you... She pulls you closer and whispers into your ear: “I want you to insert your penis into my vagina.”

I think it's safe to assume you would be a half mast sailboat floudering in the water hoping for a wind to take you far far away. So the point is, political correctness is great and all, but leave my genitals alone, unless you plan on knocking them around a bit.

Just don't call it a fucking penis.

Null Object Pattern - Dark Villain Monologue

This is a snippet from a story I am working on called Null Object Pattern. Works as a sort of weird monologue and should hold a casting directors attention.

N U L L   O B J E C T   P A T T E R N

BY: Paul William Fassett

You don't matter. I wouldn't shed a tear for you no more than I would shed a tear for the millions that died in the Holocaust. Now I don't deny it was a tragedy, I'm not a complete monster. There's just no emotional attachment there. I didn't know anyone that died there so how could I weep? 

After all, people cry more for dead pets than they do the deaths of people they never met.

Just yesterday I was coming home from work and through my windshield I could see a bunny, or a rabbit, (hard to tell the difference). It was white, with pools of blood gathering at its matted fur. It must have gotten hit by a car maybe, I don't know. It was limping, bloodied, up to the curb dragging an injured leg behind it. 

The curb was too high for it to climb but it tried nonetheless. Over and over again. Failing each time. Smacking up against the curb flatly, then falling back until it finally just laid there, breathing heavily, ready to accept death. 

But death never seemed to come... 

It just kept on breathing, and breathing, and blinking, and breathing, and breathing. Blink, expand, contract, expand, contract, blink... 

I watched unable to move, unable to think of what I could do, aside from watch and feel sadness for the pitiful little thing. His blinking became slower, his breathing shallow, until its body shuddered with a coughing fit. Slowly its chest rose, and deflated. Mouth dropped open, eyes stared ceaselessly at me, as if pleading. Pleading for help, or comfort, as if I should run from my car, cradle its head and shout up to the dark sky: 

“No! Not this one! You can't have him!”

I didn't posses the power to do anything, and it didn't matter... It was a dead thing, and didn't matter...

Hope - Drama Monologue

As per a request from yesterday's blog entry.

H O P E

BY: Paul William Fassett

We were standing at the train station, waiting, hoping we could get out of the city. Honduras was a war zone. Gangs fighting for their own stretch of land that was never theirs to begin with. We were like chattel to them to be bought and sold and slaughtered. We had been there for weeks waiting for a chance to board but we never got on a train. There were much more desperate people willing to fight harder for what they wanted. We knew that if we did not get out that night, the gangs would be back to collect their daily tribute and we would be coming up short. Our daughter was only twelve at the time.

To the Mara, however, she was old enough.

We waited at the boarding platform and were the first to enter when the doors opened but a line had formed that snaked around the building and off into the thicket of palm trees and fronds behind us. We were quickly overtaken by a flood of people and soon we found ourselves washed out, our little girl, Lupe in tow behind us. So many people, all of them pushing against one another, jockeying for position at the front of what had become a wall of flesh.

There was no hope. We were so far behind and the people in front of us were young and full of strength and anger and determination and our bodies were old and worked and tired. Resigned as we were to our fate we still decided to wait out the turbulence as people pushed passed us and shook the crowd like a mighty wave but suddenly the sea of bodies parted and a hush fell over the crowd. A middle aged couple, fair haired and pale skinned were escorted by armed guards as a path opened to the train.

The two of them were massive compared to the crowd. Round bellies, apprehensive faces drawn long from the despairing faces of the thicket of dark skinned stick figures. We were a group of skeletons watching the living pass by. Something dropped from his pockets in front of Lupe and before I could grab her, she was off running for the couple. Armed guards spun on her pointing their rifles at the child. My wife was not far behind her, holding her, putting out her hand begging.

The man spoke with a heavy accent and helped lower the men's rifles with a gentle hand. “Vat is it little girl?”

Lupe extended her hand and in her palm was a gold watch attached to a silver chain. He took it gently from her hand as I came to stand behind her. I apologized profusely, looking down at my feet all the while. The German's were probably diplomats on vacation, I thought. Why they would chose a place like this, however, was beyond me.

He knelt down and said: “Sank you. Ziss vas my father's and my father's before him. It is dear to me.” He was silent for a moment and his mind seemed to be elsewhere. “Vat is your name?”

Lupe, she replied. He stood and turned to his wife and exchanged hushed words. She nodded.

“How vould you like to ride in a train Lupe?”

The words hit me like a brick and buckled my knees. My wife cried and our daughter's excitement was so child-like and innocent. She had no idea the implications of his action. The price of a ticket may not have seemed like much to him but as we drew closer to the train cab and we looked up to the roof to see families riding on the top with only blankets to shield them from the cold and the rain, we knew. Knew that his simple act of kindness gave hope to a family that was hopeless.

I Can't Forget Her - Drama Monologue

I   C A N ' T   F O R G E T   H E R

BY: Paul William Fassett

That's the problem! You never get over something like this. It sticks with you forever and the harder I fight to push the memory out, the more vivid the pictures become. It's like a scab that keeps peeling off. You don't just forget people. They hang around in your head like ghosts, appearing out of nowhere. They don't care what you are doing, or how inconvenient it might be to cry at that moment. They want attention.

How do you forget a child? No matter the age. It came from me! It came from you! How do you expect me to forget that and how the fuck can you!

This isn't a matter of: “She's gone, we have to move on.” I can't get her face out of my head! She's... She's in here... Smiling at me one day. Showing the gaps where her baby teeth hadn't grown in, and the next she's in a coffin with her eyes closed. Looking so peaceful but so fucking dead!

How am I supposed to forget that? How am I supposed to move on when the only purpose I had for living the last five years is gone? What? Do I take up a hobby? Take my mind off her the way you'd take your mind off a dead pet? How do you do it? Pour alcohol on the problem? Maybe I'll take up needle point? Yeah. That will keep me from waking up in the middle of the night to an imaginary crying in my head.

You know what the worst part is? I still get panic attacks. I wake up in the middle of the night and on instinct I walk in to her room to find her crib empty and for a split second my breath gets caught in my chest. My heart starts beating out of control. I think: “Where is she?” And when I look around and see the emptiness of the room, how you gutted it. I remember, she's gone.

She's gone and I can't let go....

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...