Marriage (a Standup Comedy Monologue)

Basically marriage is bullshit. You go out on a Friday night, get dressed in ten minutes and … wait untill she’s ready.

One hour later, she finishes the makeup.

Two hours later, she finds a dress she’s gonna wear.

Three hours later, she realizes this is not a dress she’s gonna wear.

Four hours later, she finds out her fucking shoes are too old.

She looks like the British Queen who accidentally visited a men’s restroom at a mine factory in Cardiff.

“I can’t wear last-year shoes!”

Here’s another example. Imagine yourself driving a 1983 Chrysler. A 1983 Chrysler with those fucking wooden sides. A 1983 Chrysler with those fucking wooden sides on the interstate highway full of Ferrari and Lamborghini. A 1983 Chrysler with those fucking wooden sides on the interstate highway full of Ferrari and Lamborghini when the highway patrol stops you and says, “Man, you’re driving dangerously slow.”

Can you imagine your face?

That’s how she looks when she gets last-year shoes.

Last-month shoes are like the Titanic movie. Oldie but goodie.

Last-season shoes are like the Home Alone movie. Goodie but oldie.

And last-year shoes are like the Police Academy 2 with that fucking Zed. Do you remember Zed screaming, “AAAH! AAAAAH!”? Oh God, that guy was fucking crazy.


And she keeps asking you, “Am I fat?”

Between you and me, I’ve got a business idea. All diets are bullshit. Who the hell trusts the guys who sell those diets? It’s like those coaches who teach you how they made their first million on you because you wanted to learn how to make the first million.

So, between you and me … you and me only … here’s the idea.

Become a weight-loss doctor. Become a weight-loss doctor, get yourself a “macho” name (because girls like “macho”) and give a one hundreed percent guarantee they will lose weight. Rent a huge hall. Rent Madison Square Guarden. Get the arena packed. Hire musicians. Let them do drum beat until you’ll show up.

Wait while the women apllause. Start talking. Wait while they applause again.

Then say, “You’re all fat. Eat less. That’s it.”

Women will be like, “What the heck? What did we pay for??”

Next day, they will start running. They will get fit on their own just to prove you, the fucking weight-loss doctor, that you’re such a jerk.

A month after, when they will still use your photo as a darthboard, send them letters. Say, “Good job. You’ve all lost several pounds. It was the first stage of my program.”

Think about it when she asks you if she’s fat.


Fortunately, we’ve got a bunch of divorce lawyers. Our country is a divorce heaven. Pay three hundred bucks and — bingo! — get your freedom back.

She will ask you,

“Will you take me to Hawaii for vacation?

Will you take me to a five-star restaurant where waiters speak with thick French accent?

Will we go to a new love drama at a movie theater with my favorite actor? (Isn’t he a sweetie?)

Are we going to a ten-story shopping mall for a whole Saturday?”

And you just say, “No. Because you are not my wife.”

Isn’t it awesome?

But there’s one question left.

Who the hell will tighten your tie every single morning?

Who. The. Hell. Will. Tighten. Your. Tie. Every. Single. Morning?

So being single is even worse than being married.

When you’re single, you always look around and question, “Who the fuck to date?”

When you’re single, you use your Linkedin profile for writing girls you like. (“I endorse her skills, so maybe she’s gonna endorse mine and probably, eventually, endorse me.”)

Being single is ridiculous.

It’s like that fucking Zed driving that fucking 1983 Chrysler with those fucking wooden sides on the interstate highway full of Lamborghini and Ferrari when the highway patrol stops him and says, “Man, you’re driving dangerously slow” — and he answers, “AAAAAAH!!!”

Avoid this situation.

As the great ancient philosopher Socrates said … who the hell knows what he said?

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.