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Written by StageMilk Team on August, 24th 2020 |
Monologues For Actors

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Looking for a great comedic monologue? You have

come to the right page. We have put together a
massive list of comedy monologues for men and
women, from theatre, film and TV. We aim to cover
all bases – some are from classical playwrights, and
others from contemporary TV series. These
monologues will work well for auditions, perhaps a
showreel update or for just some self-taping fun.

I find actors always have great dramatic pieces on

their casting profiles, or at auditions, but rarely have
a great comic monologue. Having a really great
comedy piece will make you stand out and allow you
to show off your range as an actor.

It’s always tricky finding a great comedy monologue

as let’s be honest, most comedy monologues aren’t
exactly standup routines. Some are laugh out loud,
but others are more subtle. As you’ll see from some
of the monologues on this list, some are simply just
lighter in nature. If you have been asked to prepare
a comedy monologue, don’t think that it has to be
the funniest two minutes of your life.

How to approach a comedy monologue:

The key to comedy is to play the truth of the
situation. Too many actors play up the comedy,
trying to make a monologue funnier than it is. In fact,
we have to trust the playwright or screenwriter and
just fully commit to the situation. I highly recommend
reading or watching some of the writer’s work to get
the nuance of that writer: a Neil Simon monologue is
very different to a Phoebe Waller-Bridge.

How to pick a comedy monologue:

I recommend reading a bunch of monologues below
and then just making a gut choice. A monologue will
soar if you connect with it! If you are reading a
monologue below and feel excited to get up and
have a play – that is your monologue.

I hope you enjoy!

Read more: How to rehearse a monologue

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By Sadie Hasler

Jude:
He called me by my name. His name for me. Judy
Rude. Because I ‘always swear’. Apparently. The
only fucking person I have ever allowed to call me
Judy. I went and stood in a card shop for a bit to sort
my head out. I hadn’t seen him since we split up, not
once. Ten years. It’s weird – I always thought I
wasn’t that bothered about him, but I’ve not really
liked anyone since. Not enough to live with. And you
don’t expect that when you break up with someone
do you? That they won’t be bettered. Upgraded.
That you will just … stand still. Ten years. Fuck.

So I stood there in the shop, and there were loads of

congratulations cards – new babies, pink and blue,
storks with bundles, balloons, all spewing out. There
was one, with a photo of fat little baby feet, next to a
card which said ‘It’s your birthday, let’s get
wankered’. And all of a sudden I didn’t know who I
was anymore. Was I free? Or wasted? Just for a
minute. Then I was fine. Left the shop.

AND THEN OF COURSE I STARTED GOING

FUCKING STIR-FUCKING-CRAZY THINKING OF
ALL THE THINGS I COULD HAVE SAID. Like,
‘What the fuck were you doing having a kid months
after breaking up with me’, like ‘You said you were
like me, you never wanted kids’, like ‘Damn straight I
look good – I haven’t been sucked dry by tit-
leeches’. And then I almost threw up, because that
lady who smells of egg went by, and also because
what if, what if we’d stayed together, what if he’d
asked me, and I’d said yes in a moment of madness
and let him do his thing, and we’d done the normal
stuff, and had the babies, would that be my life now?
Would I be happy? Happier? Different? What? WHY
WASN’T I GOOD ENOUGH TO WANT TO
IMPREGNATE? How come Judy Rude lost out to
Molly Blah?

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By Wade Bradford

Beatrix, the 17-year old president of the student

body, after her “ex-friend” deviously cancels the
prom.

Beatrix:
Young women need the Prom. It’s a rite of passage
as sacred as getting your driver’s license or buying
your first bra. There are only a few things in life that
are guaranteed to be glorious and memorable and
sparkling with gowns and cummerbunds. Prom is
the quintessential teenage experience.

Think of the unlucky grown-ups and the elderly who

lament the day they decided not to go to the Prom. It
is a key ingredient to a happy and meaningful life.
Prom is short for Promenade, a slow, gentle walk
through a shady glen, and this beloved ceremony
symbolizes our journey from the shadows of
adolescence to the bright sunshine of the adult world
with all its freedoms.

And it may be the only chance I’ll ever have to

dance with a boy. Maybe I’ll never have someone
get down on a knee and offer me a diamond ring.
Maybe I’ll never walk down the aisle with a smug
look of bridal triumph. But it is my right, and the right
of every plain, frumpy, book-wormy, soon-to-be
librarian to have one night of Cinderella magic. Even
if we have to go with our cousin, or our gay best
friend from tap class, we will have a Prom. And you
will help me.

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By Debra Oswald

Gillian:
All right. I’m going to admit something I never
thought I’d admit to anyone ever. I’ve got a crush on
Adam. Head over heels. Uncontrollable passion,
etcetera. Unrequited passion, of course. Now I know
this sounds like I’m throwing away everything I’ve
said so far. And I guess I am. I know every girl at
school except Monica is in love with him. I know he’d
never go for a dag like me. I know it’s hopeless. I
know all that. But I can’t help it. Just thinking he
might look at me, my heart starts pounding like mad.
And then I worry about whether he can tell my
hearts going crazy, and I have to act really cool. This
crush – it’s like a disease. Do you know – oh, I’m
almost too embarrassed to admit this – Adam
misses the bus sometimes. ‘Cos he’s chatting up
some girl or something. And do you know what I do?
I get off the bus after one stop and walk back to
school, so I can hang around the bus stop hoping
he’ll turn up. Just so I can ride on the same bus with
him. Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever
heard? I’m crazy. I can lie here for hours thinking
about him. Writing these movies in my head where
Adam and me are the stars. I try to imagine how
he’d notice me and fall hopelessly in love with me
and all that. Like, one of my favourites is that the bus
breaks down one day in this remote place and there
we are stranded together. He discovers that I was
this really fascinating woman all along. Far more
interesting than all those silly girls at school. But – I
say that I can’t bear to be just another notch on his
belt. So Adam has to beg me to go out with him.
Grovel almost. That’s a pretty over-the-top version.

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By Michael Frayn

Dotty:
“It’s no good you going on. I can’t open sardines and
answer the phone. I’ve only got one pair of feet.
Hello…. Yes, but there’s no one here, love…. No,
Mr. Brent’s not here…He lives here, yes, but he
don’t live here now because he lives in Spain… Mr.
Philip Brent, that’s right…. The one who writes the
plays, that’s him, only now he writes them in Spain…
No, she’s in Spain, too, they’re all in Spain, there’s
no one here… Am I in Spain? No, I’m not in Spain,
dear. I look after the house for him, but I go home at
one o’clock on Wednesday, only I’ve got a nice plate
of sardines to put my feet up with, because it’s the
royal what’s-it’s called on the telly — the royal you
know — where’s the paper, then? And if it’s to do
with letting the house then you’ll have to ring the
house-agents, because they’re the agents for the
house…. Squire Squire, Hackham and who’s the
other one…? No, they’re not in Spain, they’re next to
the phone in the study. Squire, Squire, Hackham,
and hold on, I’ll go and look. Always the same, isn’t
it. Soon as you take the weight off your feet, down it
all comes on your head.”

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By William Shakespeare 

Helena: Act 2, Scene 2

“O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies;
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:
If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers.
No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;
For beasts that meet me run away for fear:
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius
Do, as a monster fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne?
But who is here? Lysander! on the ground!
Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.
Lysander if you live, good sir, awake”

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By William Shakespeare 

Rosalind: Act 3, Scene 5

“And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over the wretched? What though you have no
beauty,–
As by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed,–
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work. Od’s my little life!
I think she means to tangle my eyes too.
No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:
‘Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman: ‘tis such fools as you
That make the world full of ill-favour’d children:
‘Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,
And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love:
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.”

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By Joseph Arnone

Kim:
I don’t know what it is with me lately but I just get so
UGH! when guys come up to me, with their cheesy
lines, (imitating guy) “Hey, you have such a beautiful
smile” or “Can I just tell you that you are so
beautiful”. Ugh! It disgusts me. I mean, who the hell
does this guy or that guy think he is to give me such
compliments? What gives him the right? I don’t do
anything to give off any kind of interest whatsoever, I
completely look the other way when I see eye
contact happening and they STILL come over
thinking they’re so suave and it’s simply repulsive.
You know what I’m saying??

What does a girl have to do these days? Maybe if I

just vomited on myself the guy would walk the other
way but I bet even then, I’d get, “The way you vomit
on yourself is just so, so delightful.”

…All I want is to be left alone. I have a man, I love

my man and I do my best to be polite but the
irritation and the cheesy lines are getting to be too
much. Guys are blind, they really are, OBLIVIOUS to
when a girl is not interested. There are days when I
rather be a man.”

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By Tennessee Williams

Amanda Wingfield:
Possess your soul in patience – you will see!

Something I’ve resurrected from that old trunk!

Styles haven’t changed so terribly much after all.

(She parts the portières.)

Now just look at your mother !

(She wears a girlish frock of yellowed voile with a

blue silk sash. She carries a bunch of jonquils – the
legend of her youth is nearly revived.)

(Feverishly) This is the dress in which I led the

cotillion, won the cakewalk twice at Sunset Hill, wore
one spring to the Governor’s ball in Jackson ! See
how I sashayed around the ballroom, Laura?

(She raises her skirt and does a mincing step

around the room.)

I wore it on Sundays for my gentlemen callers ! I had

it on the day I met your father. I had malaria fever all
that spring. The change of climate from East
Tennessee to the Delta – weakened resistance I had
a little temperature all the time – not enough to be
serious – just enough to make me restless and
giddy. Invitations poured in – parties all over the
Delta! – ‘Stay in bed,’ said mother, ‘you have fever!’
– but I just wouldn’t. – I took quinine but kept on
going, going ! Evenings, dances ! – Afternoons,
long, long rides! Picnics. – lovely! – So lovely, that
country in May. – All lacy with dogwood, literally
flooded with jonquils! – That was the spring I had the
craze for jonquils. Jonquils became an absolute
obsession. Mother said, ‘Honey, there’s no more
room for jonquils.’ And still I kept on bringing in more
jonquils. Whenever, wherever I saw them, I’d say,
“Stop ! Stop! I see jonquils ! I made the young men
help me gather the jonquils ! It was a joke, Amanda
and her jonquils ! Finally there were no more vases
to hold them, every available space was filled with
jonquils. No vases to hold them? All right, I’ll hold
them myself – And then I – (She stops in front of the
picture.) met your father ! Malaria fever and jonquils
and then – this – boy…. (She switches on the rose-
coloured lamp.) I hope they get here before it starts
to rain.”

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By Andrew Bovell

Monika:
I’m fine now. Honestly. Just pretend that nothing
happened. It’s just that for a moment I thought
Martin was still with me and I panicked. Isn’t that
silly. I was thinking about what I was going to order
when I remembered that I hadn’t left anything out for
Martin. I thought of him searching through the fridge
and not finding a morsel. I wanted to say something,
to tell you he’d be looking for his dinner but I couldn’t
get it out. It was as though a large piece of phlegm
had lodged in my throat and my words couldn’t pass
it. But then I remembered. Martin wouldn’t be
wanting his dinner because Martin’s not with me any
more. Martin’s dead. And the phlegm just slid away.
Poor Martin. If only I was a little quicker. To have
held him in my arms before he went. But how was I
to know? How was I to know he was about to die.
Men don’t have strokes when they’re thirty eight
years old. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault, was
it? Have I told you how Martin died? We’d finished
our dinner. Martin was in the loungeroom watching
television and I was in the kitchen doing the
washing-up. I’d nearly finished the pots when I smelt
this most vile smell. So I put the dog outside but the
smell didn’t go away. I searched high and low
through that kitchen. Martin couldn’t stand
unidentified smells. Then I realised that the smell
was coming from the lounge room. I went in and
there was Martin sitting bolt upright in his chair with
his nostrils quivering and the most terrible look on
his face. He would hate me for telling you but he’d
lost control of his bowels. Something he normally
never would have done. ‘Martin’, I said. ‘Is
everything alright?’ ‘No dear’. And they were his last
words. He closed his eyes and slid off the chair. The
poor man, he was such a clean person when he was
alive. So sad that he had to die in such shame. And
thank God we didn’t have any children. And God
knows we tried. Still, where would we be now if we
had children? Not here, not out on the town having
such a good time.

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By Tom Wells

Sister Winnie:
Oh, it was fine. I mean: not fine fine – everything’s…

(to Kayleigh.) I’ve been at the hospital, Kayleigh. I

don’t know if Stephen said. Getting some tests done.
I’ve got angina. Which for some reason I keep
calling: vagina. It doesn’t help. It means, Kayleigh,
no more fun. No more drinking, no more getting
worked up, no more smoking, apparently – I’m
ignoring that, obviously but. I’m getting pills, blood-
thinners. They’ve showered me with leaflets.

The consultant basically said I could pop my clogs at

any moment. Added to which: he was a very pale
man, heavy-breather – I did wonder briefly if he
might actually be Death, come to get me. But then
one of the other doctors popped in, called him Nigel,
mentioned something about badminton so I thought:
probably not. It’s hard to imagine the Grim Reaper
with a shuttlecock. But that’s not the worst bit,
Stephen.

(Stephen: “Oh.”)

Picture this: I’ve been through all the sitting, the

waiting, spent three pounds thirty-nine on a
mediocre sandwich, been wired up to a monitor,
jogged, et cetera, I’ve been jiggled about, prodded,
pressed with some very chilly instruments, got
released, finally, back into the world, with my
clogged-up arteries and uncertain future, I’m in the
lift going down, who should I bump into? Who should
get into the lift with me on floor number seven? I’ll
give you a clue: he’s got a fucking hernia. And did
he ask how I was? No. He spotted me, took a deep
breath, launched into another two-hour rant about
what a rough deal it is – whinging, complaining,
whining. I mean, I know it’s not nice to have a bit of
your stomach lining poking out, I get it, I do, but
really – how much more is there to say?

Anyway, I’m sorry to be so late back.

EC(#F#3)*+,(#-"(.
By Phoebe Waller-Bridge

Fleabag:
Okay.
Into the shower. Boom. Bedroom. Make-up. Boom.
Gonna really make an effort. I take half an hour
trying to look nice and I ended up looking…
amazing. I mean, best in ages. One of those days.
Boom.
Gorgeous, fresh-faced, heels, wearing a skirt, new
top, little bit sexy, on my way to save my café and
yes, I am strutting.
I see a man walking towards me from the bus stop.
He can’t take his eyes off me. I’m all walking like I’ve
got a paintbrush up my arse, thinking:
Yeah, check me out, cos it’s never gonna happen,
Chub Chub.

I opened the café with my friend Boo. She’s dead

now. She accidentally killed herself. It wasn’t her
intention, but it wasn’t a total accident. She didn’t
think she’d actually die, just found out that her
boyfriend slept with someone else and she wanted
to punish him by ending up in hospital and not letting
him visit her for a bit. She decided to walk into a
busy cycle lane wanting to get tangled in a bike.
Break a finger, maybe. But it turns out bikes can go
fast and flip you into the road. Three people died.
She was such a dick. I didn’t tell her parents the
truth. I told her boyfriend. He cried a lot.

Chub Chub’s getting closer. Oversized jacket. Meaty

face. Looks me up and down. It’s like he’s confused
about how attractive I am – he can’t quite believe it. I
worry for a second I’m going to make a sex offender
out of the poor guy. He’s about to say something.
Here we fucking go, this better be good. He’s
passing, he’s passing. He clears his throat, brings
his hand to his mouth and coughs: “Walk of shame.”
It’s too late to go home and change. I have some flat
shoes in my bag and anyway, he’s fat.
And he can’t take that off at night.

Harry’s a bit fat. He lightly pats his belly, like he’s a

little bear. Proud of what he’s achieved. Hunted.
Gathered. Eaten. Pat. Evidence. Pat, pat. It makes
me laugh. A pretty girl at a party once asked me if I
secretly liked that Harry had a paunch, because it
made him less attractive to other women. Her
boyfriend was the whale in the corner, blocking the
door to the toilets.
I asked her if he made her wash the bits he can’t
reach. She slapped me. Actual slap.
Which means he did.

Boo’s death hit the papers.

‘Local café girl is hit by a bike and a car and another
bike.’
There was a buzz around the café all of a sudden.
Flowers, notes, guinea-pig memorabilia were left
outside in her memory.
Boo was built a bit like a guinea pig. No waist or
hips. Straight down. She rocked it. And she was
beautiful. Tricky though. Jealous. Sensitive. But
beautiful and… my best friend.