Here's another monologue. Tell me what you think and if you do decide to perform it let me know how it goes. Till next time.
It's not that I hate homeless people. It's just I didn't understand how they could ever let themselves get into that kind of position. I mean it's not that hard to find a job. I'm sure they could very easily find work as a janitor. And what about all those shelters that give them a place to stay while they get back on their feet? I mean I didn't pay all those taxes for nothing. I just didn't understand. That was until the company that I worked for went belly up, and I lost everything. I lost my house, my car, my stereo, I even lost my dog, and most importantly I lost my wife. We had been going through some rough times and it didn't help when I came home and told my wife that I had just lost my job. We had enough money for about 3 months. So I didn't have much time to find another job. So I went out everyday, but no one wanted to hire me. They all said I was too qualified. After 2 months, almost all our money was gone. We didn't even have enough money to put gas in our car. I had to start bumming rides from friends or walk to my interviews. I got desperate; I did something I never thought I would ever do. I went up to a McDonalds to see if I could get a job and when I gave my application to the manager, he looked at me and laughed and said, "is this for real?" and I said, "Yes I just lost my job and I really need another one." And he said to me, "I'm sorry but your just too qualified." I went to college for four years, and now I had just been turned down by McDonald's. I went home and my wife and I had the worst fight we had ever had. I ended up taking the last of our money and using it to get a hotel room. The next day I went back to my house to apologize and tell her that we were going to get through this, but when I got there, their were police all over. I went up to one of the officers and asked him what was going on. He told me that some of our neighbors had heard our fight the night before and that after I left they saw her doing some disturbing things. They called the police and the dispatch told them that they couldn't send anyone by that night but they would send someone by in the morning. When they got there they found her on the floor. She had killed her self. Now I understand.
Drive Time
Sometimes I drive. No, no it's not anything weird. It's not where I go and drive to the store or go out in the country and look at all the pretty plants and animals. I just drive. I do it in the middle of the night. When nobody else is out there. I don't speed. OK, I try not to speed. I usually end up speeding, but that's not the point. The point is …I sometimes drive. It's a time in my life, a time in my day, where all I do is drive. You might find that weird. That's fine. Everyone's allowed there own opinion, but everyone has there own "drive time". Some people may call it "play time". While other call it "music time" or "reading time" or "computer time". Some people may even call it "leave-me-the-hell-alone time". Every one has their own time. I have my drive time. What? You want to know what I do on my drive time. What else, I drive. That's it. I just drive. I rev my engine. I shift. I turn. I drive. I think of nothing else. I don't think of my bills, my work, my kids, or any other of the problems in my life. I don't even think about my car. For that 30 minutes. I am my car. I feel the tires huge the road. The wind slide over the hood. I am the car, but it only happens on my "drive time". Never any other time. Just my "drive time". Sometimes I get so involved that end up driving by old friend's houses. And as I drive by I see if I recognize any of the cars in the driveway. Usually I don't, but sometimes. Just sometimes I do, and I wonder. Would I still be friends with them if I had made more time for the friendship. But, then I down shift to 2nd and continue on my way. With the moment gone. I go home. That's what I do. Can I ask you a question? What do you call your time?
Story Of A Lovely Lady
This is a story of a lovely lady. Well not lovely more like good looking in a freakishly tall way. Her name was Joan Of'arnck. Anyway, she stood at the basketball height of 8'11¾" and that's with her hair down. You don't even want me to talk about how tall she was when she went through her "bee hive" hair style phase, let's just say sea gulls had a hard time flying over her at the beach. But other than her sky scraper height, the ridiculous volume of food her stomach could hold, and the fact that she thought capitalism was good but wasn't a capitalist; she was a great catch. Now back to our story.
It was a rainy Saturday night and Joan had 16 of her friends over at her house for a party. Now, Joan didn't put on great parties, mostly because she only owned Eric Clapton CD's, but it was beneficial for her. See she rarely went out of her house. Mainly because of her immense height but also because she drank kerosene as her beverage of choice and in turn that would ignite her farts, shooting 5-10' flames from her backside burning anything, or anyone for that matter, in there path. This one time she accidentally lit a small dog on fire and it actually urinated on it's self to put out the fire. It's no lie. I watched it with my own eyes. Craziest thing I had ever seen. Sadly the dog didn't make it but I did go to the funeral. It was a nice service and the dog's burial was quaint. I decided to stay at the grave till everyone left so I could say my last words. I went up to the tomb stone and read the barely legible inscription. It read:
Here lies Lanolin. We loved our fat dog and he loved his fat family. Born: 1952 Died: 2003
I think that was a miss print but then again who am I to say that dog wasn't 51 years old. As I was turned around to leave I noticed that Jef Hicks, he was the actually owner of Lanolin, was standing right behind me. He immediately started talking to about how great Lanolin was. Which is how I found out Lanolin was named that because he loved to have lanolin spread on his dog food. Which then is how I found out lanolin was yellow-white fat. Which then explained why the small dog weighed 150lbs and popped and crackled when he was on fire. When Jef finished praising his dog I asked him why he was dressed up in his sergeants uniform. He then told me that he was so depressed about Lanolin's death and that he couldn't rouse himself to do his laundry. His uniform was the only thing he had that was clean. That one sentence moved me so much that I invited him to get a drink with me at a local bar. He agreed and insisted that he pay for all the drinks. I had no problem with this since I wasn't going to stop a grieving man from buying me drinks. Before I knew it Jef was singing show tunes on top of the bar and basically being a general irritant. He was thrown out of the bar shortly after he started singing "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story. I took the initiative and drove him home to make sure he got home safe. The next day I woke up with two hand guns, a shotgun, and a cat in my face. The police read me my rights then hand cuffed me. As they were shuffling me out of bed I asked if I could have one last request. The officers told me that I wasn't being killed just being tried for the murder of Jef Hicks but they obliged any way. So I took a census of the police officers to see if they thought I had committed murder. To my surprise every last officer said that even though they were pretty sure I didn't kill him I was probably going to be found guilty anyway. Well, that didn't scare me because I had faith that the American public would find me not guilty. Boy was I wrong, but I'm getting a head of myself. Were was I, that's right, the trial. I was being defended by a rookie lawyer. That was my first sign things weren't going my way. The second sign was just the fact that I had no saliva in my mouth, none at all. That only happens when something's going to go wrong for me. Like when I went to Spain to run with the bulls. That morning, well actually all day, my mouth was dry and I ended up on the business end of a pair of bullhorns. Anyway I'm getting off track. So because my mouth was dry I knew that the trail wasn't going to go well. After three days of deliberation I finally took the stand. It was weird, the prosecutions lawyer kept trying get me to say that I used to rendezvous with Jef every Saturday at the Hoppin' Leg Bar on the boulevard in Santa Monica and that I would always strike some matches to light my cigarette but only end up burning myself. None of which ever happened. My lawyer, on the other hand, was even weirder than that. He kept asking me if I had taken a statistics class in college and then would ask if that was considered math. I actually got so mad at him that I tried to bum rush him. I didn't get very far considering I was chained to my seat. Well after that, the prosecution only had to show up at the courtroom to get the guilty verdict. And sure enough they got it. I had been tried and found guilty of murder. I was then sentenced to life in prison. Which is where I'm writing this story. Ha, how about that for a plot twist, bet you didn't see that coming. Just to let you know I told my cell mate about my trail and he said that my story was too inconsistent to believe. I think he's right. Oh, well can't win them all, right? And just to let you know Joan's party was a bust and everyone left from boredom after about 10 minutes. Well almost everyone….. one guy stayed. He ended up marrying Joan. There the weirdest couple I've ever seen. She's 8' plus and he's 3'4". I swear they look like Big Foot and Under Dog when there together. Oh, one more thing. If you haven't figured it by now, I didn't murder Jef Hicks. He actually fell down his stairs in a drunken haze and impaled himself a steak knife he was holding.I'm Tripping Out Man
I wear glasses. Sometimes I wear contacts but for the majority of the time I'm wearing glasses. Of course for anyone who wears glasses you know that you take them off before you go to bed. It's kind of hard to sleep with your glasses on. They don't last long if you do. Anyway, one time I had taken some medicine and....well, I guess you can say I had an "allergic" reaction to it.
I fell asleep and the next thing I know I'm seeing a buzzing, horribly mutated, white locust. I mean this thing had one hind leg, massive multiple feelers, and a malicious contriving puss bubble that seemed as if it would of popped if you even had an inkling to looking at it. This locust was of course stuck to my glasses...which I wasn't wearing, but I sure as hell thought I was. Then suddenely for no apparent reason at all, the locust broke in half.
Now, there's a cat at my house that likes my room. This cat is dark colored and loves to follow me around. It took me about 2 days to figure this out but the locust was actuall the cat nudging my head (and purring) to wake me up to let it out. Now I've never done any drugs other than alcohol but I have to say that that qualifies as a "trip". So, I can actually understand and completely comprehend "Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas". So there!
Feet
I ladies and gentlemen...have a problem. I know, I know. I shouldn't have this problem but I do. I don't want to even tell you because...well because of what you might think of me...but I must. I've been told by doctors that it's just a fetish. I've been to by whores that it'll cost five hundred dollars more. I've even been told that I'm going to hell because of it.
See...I can't seem to stop licking the bottoms of my feet. I know, I know. I find it disgusting as well...but I can't help it. There's nothing like feeling a slick tongue on the balls of your feet or the mixing taste of cotton, fungus, and bird dung on your heel. It's even more exilerating when you remember that it's your own togue squirming, lubricating, and tasting every sickly disgusting piece of you lowest extremity. God even talking about it makes me want it more.
I want to stop so badly...but yet I don't think I can. I know, I know. Your saying that I should be shot for disgracing my toes so. I say that I should be commended for coming forward about the dishonoring of my feet. Is it so bad that I love to take care of them? What do you do for you feet at the end of the day? Let me guess. You put them in some slippers? Maybe a loved one massages them? I bet you don't do anything for you feet. You just go to bed with them aching. You say shame on me...I say shame on you.
At least I take care of my feet. I know, I know. I have some problems...but then again. Who doesn't. I think I'll start on my way to recovery by washing my feet...I swear I'll do it by taking a shower this time not by the way of my vile tongue. Oh how I will miss my tongue lashings.