I’m Kayla, a coach and reader who sits in on a lot of auditions. I also hop up and test pieces myself—yes, I still get butterflies, and yes, I carry cough drops like a grandma. Finding a funny monologue for guys that lands? Hard. Lots are tired. Some are loud but not actually funny. So I spent a month pulling pieces, testing them in class, and trying them in front of real people. I spilled coffee on one script and still did it. That piece got a callback. Go figure.
If you want the blow-by-blow of that first search marathon, I summed it up in this earlier dive into humorous monologues for men that breaks down exactly why some pieces flop.
Let me explain what helped, what flopped, and then I’ll give you real monologues you can use. Free. Fresh. And punchy.
What I Used (and How It Felt)
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StageMilk’s men’s monologue lists
- Pros: Clean search, solid taste. Good for types and lengths.
- Cons: A few picks feel overused. I heard two guys do the same one in one morning. Oof.
- My note: Great for ideas, not great for being the only source.
- Extra check: I cross-referenced the Daily Actor roundup of comedic monologues for men to dodge duplicates.
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- Pros: Easy to skim. Clear tone notes like “quirky” or “awkward charm.”
- Cons: Some pieces are hot right now, which means you’ll hear them a lot.
- My note: I flagged themes and then wrote my own take. That kept it fresh.
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The Ultimate Monologue Book for Men (paperback)
- Pros: Feels like a real grab bag. Good for pacing practice.
- Cons: Some jokes feel dated. Timing still works though.
- My note: I used it like a gym. Warm-up tool, not the final show.
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New Play Exchange (search)
- Pros: New writers, new voices. Bless.
- Cons: You’ll dig for hours.
- My note: I messaged one writer for a short cut; got it same day. Nice.
Side note: If you’re scouting for equally punchy pieces for women, my rundown of in-class favorites is right here.
Need a quick palate cleanser between pulls? I sometimes read through these teacher jokes from the front of the room to reset the energy in the room.
For an extra hit of offbeat material, I sometimes scroll through Crazy Laughs where one-liner premises spark new monologue ideas in under a minute.
Here’s the thing: casting wants your story and your turn—the moment you flip the game. You can steal that turn from almost any source. Or build one yourself. Which is what I did for most auditions this year.
Real Examples You Can Use
These are original. I wrote, tested, trimmed, and performed all of them. They play well for teen to mid-30s, but you can bend them. Mark the beats, keep a clean button, and don’t rush the setup.
1) “Salad With a Side of Panic”
- Character: Liam, 20s, earnest, low-key chaotic
- Tone: Charming meltdown
- Length: About 60–75 seconds
So, I proposed. Kind of. Well… I meant to. I had a ring. In a box. In my pocket. I also had a job—DoorDash—which is not romantic, unless you like fries.
I get an order: fancy salad. Micro greens. Tiny seeds that look like confetti, but sad. I lean over to grab napkins, the ring box flips open, and ping—it swan-dives into the salad like it paid for it. I freeze. I stare at the kale, which stares back. I think, maybe I can find it? But the dressing is thick. Caesar, not light.
Now the timer’s yelling at me. I’m late. The customer’s name? Grace. Of course it’s Grace. I bring the salad. I pray the ring sticks to a crouton or something. She opens the lid. She forks a bite. I can’t breathe. She chews. She stops. She… smiles?
She holds up the ring. “Is this… yours?” And my mouth says, “No. It’s yours,” which is not the plan. She laughs. I laugh. I run. Later, I tell my girlfriend. She says, “So… who’s Grace?” And I say, “A salad.” We are working through it.
2) “Smart Fridge, Dumb Feelings”
- Character: Nate, 30s, gym guy with a soft heart
- Tone: Confident but exposed
- Length: About 60–75 seconds
My fridge judges me. It’s “smart.” It beeps, “Try water.” I’m like, “You try minding your business.” I open it and it scans my face. “High sodium.” Wow, fridge. Read me like a book then.
I set a goal this year: clean eating, clean life, clean… kind of everything. But last night, 11:58 p.m., I stand there in the blue light like it’s church. I want pizza. The fridge says, “Consider an apple.” I say, “Consider my feelings.”
The wild part? I listen. I grab the apple. I take one bite. I miss the pizza. I miss 2 a.m. wings with my boys. I miss not caring. That’s the part I didn’t plan on. Change is loud. It creaks.
So I tell the fridge, “I’m trying.” Yeah, I talk to it. “I’m trying to be the guy who wakes up easy. Who says no. Who isn’t winded after one flight of stairs.” It hums, like it gets it. I put the apple back. I drink water. I close the door. The beep stops. And for one small, quiet minute, I feel strong.
3) “The Babysitter Who Doesn’t Swear”
- Character: Marco, 20s, cool uncle energy
- Tone: Playful crisis
- Length: About 60–75 seconds
I promised my sister I wouldn’t swear around the baby. That’s the whole job: don’t swear, keep him alive, no screen time unless I panic. Easy, right?
At 3 p.m., the baby learns gravity. He hurls a spoon at my face. I see stars. I want to say the big word. I say, “Fffff—funnel cake.” He giggles. Okay, that works.
Then he crawls. Fast. Like a tiny thief. He heads for the dog bowl. Water everywhere. I go, “Oh shi—shipyard! Boats! Boats!” He claps. He thinks I’m a pirate now. Great.
By 5 p.m., we’re both sticky and proud. He stands, wobbles, and points at me like, “You. You’re the guy.” And I am. I’m the guy who says “barnacles” like it’s normal. When my sister gets home, she says, “How’s my sweet angel?” And I say, “He’s great. He’s a genius. He also baptized the kitchen.” She looks at the floor. She looks at me. I whisper, “Fudge nuggets,” and she laughs. We’re fine.
4) “Return Desk Warrior”
- Character: Aaron, late 20s to 30s, petty but lovable
- Tone: Deadpan with spikes
- Length: About 75–90 seconds
I tried to return a blender. No receipt. No box. No blade. Long story. The clerk says, “Sir, what is it you’re returning?” I say, “My poor choices.” He doesn’t laugh. Tough crowd.
He scans the base. It beeps like a heart monitor. He frowns. “Did you… blend coins?” I say, “Only once.” He says, “Why?” I say, “Science.” He prints a slip. Then he pauses. “Sir, there’s… quinoa in here.” I nod. “It won’t leave. It lives there now.”
The manager arrives. Serious tie. He asks, “What outcome do you want?” I think about it. I want a new blender. I want better mornings. I want smoothies that don’t crunch. I say, “Store credit?” He sighs like a dad. Then, miracle. He types a code. He says, “We can do ten dollars.” Ten. Dollars. I accept. I leave a hero. I buy a spatula and gum. Change is slow. But it’s change.
If you lean naturally dry—and I do—the field notes in my straight-face diary will help you milk pauses without looking frozen.