Female Comedy Scenes
It’s Terrible Being Nice – 28+ age range
Love has a way of changing women, especially this one
(Cynthia addresses the man on his knee with a little box in his hand)
Don’t do it! Don’t open that little box one more crack! Don’t ask me to marry you. Shh, shh, shh. Don’t say another word. Just listen.
I can’t let you do this to me. I mean, before I met you I used be such a bitch. I mean, serously, everyone at work thought I was a huge bitch. No one actually liked me. Those people I introduced to you as my friends. They’re not my friends. They’re scared of me. Or they were…before I met you.
Before you, I never said please or thank you at restaurants. I never smiled or laughed at anyone’s jokes but mine. I never used to tip more than 10%. I was quick with insults. I always had a cruel word. I was cold, cross, crass, falsely compassionate.
But since being with you, I’ve begun to feel all…warm inside. Fuzzy. I find myself wanting to stroll in the park and whistle!
I have these thoughts, these urges to donate to charities and help out in soup kitchens, and hug people. Since being with you, I’ve given nearly ten dollars to homeless men, helped three old ladies cross the street, and I bought one of my so called “friends” a present at full price. And it was something I knew she’d like.
Don’t you see? Don’t you see you’ve made me NICE!? And what really scares me is that you’ll open that box and ask me to marry you, and I’ll…I’ll just nicely say “yes,” and then I’ll be nice for life.
I’ll be singing “cumbaya” for the rest of my days. I’ll give back to the community, to the Salvation Army, to The MAKE A WISH FOUNDATION! And I’ll do it annonymously.
And then one day, years from now, I’ll wake up and I’ll have the horrible realization that I lived a good life—that I contributed.
Please, for the love of God, put that box away. I mean, the planet already has millions of nice people. It doesn’t need me too. I am a bitch! And I want to stay that way! Please, stop, don’t—I’m asking you – No, I’m begging you – I’m getting down on my knees.
Will you please, please not marry me?
—End of Monologue—
Switching Sides – 25 + age range
For a woman to decide that she’s gay, all it takes is dating the right guy.
(Monologuist addresses her friend, Marci)
(Speaks quickly) Listen, Marisa…I’m -I have to- I know I’ve been a bitch to you since I found out about your -about- I think it’s okay -My minds changed -being gay’s okay -in fact your choice is…Well… this is all Brandon’s fault. I had this dream last night. This awful horrible…a vision, it was more of a vision -at least that’s what I thought -last night. I woke up in a cold sweat thinking about Brandon. I knew I had to break it off. Cause what he wanted -I couldn’t give -I can’t be what he wants. I can’t.
He wants me to cut my hair -to lose ten pounds. Last night, we’re making love -first off, he calls it “rumping” -we’re -after we’re through -he’s always so sweet after- playing with my -running his hand down my stomach. But last night he grabs a love handle and says “that’s super meaty”. Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?! I mean that’s a hint, right? So like I didn’t know how to take that kind of -I mean who says that, “super meaty” -I’m a woman, not some Dinty More Beef Stew.
I fall asleep, don’t say anything to him about it, just smile and pass out -what a wuss, right? So I have this messed up dream -I’m in a fashion show, right -Brandon is a talent scout, but he’s not my boyfriend in the dream. And he looks at me and says “Oh yeah girl you’ve got real potential.” All these guys in white coats strap me to a chair and suck like thirty pounds of fat out of me through some tubes, and these little umpa lumpas are spreading it on bread, and Santa Claus is there taking it to little chil- anyway Brandon is like sculpting me. Giving all these orders, right, like “lose the upper body, enlarge the breasts, tighten up and round out the ass, fill out the legs, lose the face.”
So there I am. I get out of the chair and look at myself in the mirror. I’m just a pair of legs, an ass, and two humungus breasts. Brandon looks at me and says “perfect, she looks super meaty” and I’m really confused, I mean genuinely confused, I mean crap, where’s my head, and I start screaming “where’s my head” “what did you do with my head” “HAS ANYONE SEEN MY GODAMNED HEAD!” And I wake up screaming “Head!” so loud that Brandon thinks I’m asking him a question and he says “Sure, I’m always down for some late night head.” I mean, what is that, right?
And later when I ask him if he thinks, you know, if I’m beautiful, he says; “why don’t you dye your hair like that chick Kate Upton, I bet you’d look real sexy.” So maybe you can understand why I think men are pigs. Cause I mean who says that shit! None of my friends of the non-male persuasion would say that word, “Super Meaty” -what am I a hot dog.
So don’t be so shocked Marisa – I know it’s been a long time in the coming -I know you thought I was doomed to- but I’m not -don’t you see -that frickin’ testosterone douchebag pig -no, that’s not fair -it’s just some guys- that’s how they’re- But I’m glad I figured it out. All right, I mean if it wasn’t for him – I really feel freer more alive than I’ve ever -really, really, I’m not shitting you -I mean open the door, I’m coming out -Forget men cause from now on the only thing I’m “rumping” -NO- making love to -is, is , is….
… all right I can say it … don’t wuss out now …
Marisa, I want to be your lover.
—End of Monologue—
Serial Dater – 28 + age range
Lacey dates men who take and take and take, until she can’t TAKE it anymore.
(Lacey enters a bare stage and addresses audience)
My father was a wonderful man who waited on me hand and foot when I was a child. Mother used to jokingly call him “the slave.” When I grew up, I expected to find a husband as loving and selfless as my father. Instead I found Frank.
I would always give Frank thirty minute back rubs, which he always asked for. He’d never give me back rubs unless I begged, and then only for thirty seconds. One time, I broke both my arms and they were put in casts. Despite this I continued with Frank’s back rubs. The doctor warned me that if I continued using the muscles in my arms that way, I would permanently damage them and have unbearable shooting pains for the rest of my life. I told Frank what the doctor said, and Frank told me I was exaggerating because I was lazy and didn’t care about how his back felt.
One day shortly after that, after a long time rubbing his back, my own was sore. And so I said “Your turn, and I want a half an hour because I always give you a half an hour, – what’s fair is fair.” And Frank said “I thought you gave me back rubs because you love me not because you expected something in return?” And I explained that I love him, but I also wanted something since I give so much. Then he told me I was just being selfish, and I needed to start trying to be a truly selfless person.
And so I tried to be selfless for awhile, but the shooting pains in my arms, which he also refused to massage, were so unbearable that finally I figured it would just be easier to kill Frank than continue trying to be selfless. And I know I should have just left, or something, but the apartment was so nice and why should I be the one to give it up? I’m the one who found it in the first place. And I suppose even then, there were other ways to handle things, but I couldn’t think of any at the time. Killing him was the best I could come up with.
The real problem with me and Frank was, I think, my inability to be assertive. To assert myself. I mean, had I just asserted my right to back rubs, and to my arms, and to my apartment which I found, then maybe Frank would have respected my needs and I wouldn’t have felt that killing him was the only option available to me.
I think I fluctuate between being too passive and too aggressive when what I really need is to find some middle ground between the two.
—End of Monologue—
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