Monologues

Andy:

Okay, I’m deceitful and treacherous.  And you are provincial and old-fashioined, antiquated, unrealistic, unimaginative, unenlightened, uninformed, and unbelievably unable to understand anything that isn’t under water . . . Your big trouble in life is that you were born a hundred and fifty years too late.  You should have been at Bunker Hill loading muskets, raising flags and waiting for the British to show up with the whites of their eyes.  Well, you may be shocked to learn that this is 1966 and this country has a whole new set of problems.  But you wouldn’t know about that because I don’t think you’re a real person of flesh and blood with feelings and sensitivities.  I don’t think you could be capable of having a genuine emotional attachment for another human being unless it was first passed by Congress and amended to the Constitution and painted red, white and blue.  If you’ve been listening carefully, Miss Rauschmeyer, I have just made a point.

Catherine (from “Waiting for the Parade” by John Murrell)

He was so proud of himself!  One of the first to volunteer!  Smiling like the halfwit  boy who helped out on my uncle’s farm at harvest time.  “Canada’s finest – on parade!”  He saluted me.  Clicked his heels.  And kissed me.  I could’ve knocked him flat!    “You might’ve said something to me first,” I told him.  “You might’ve wondered if I can manage on my own.  If I need a little time to work things out!”  He just cuddled up to me.  Kept right on grinning.  He reached across and pulled my hair back from my face.  “Gee, you look like Ann Sheridan,” he said.  “And you know how I feel about Ann Sheridan.”  It’s not that I’m not proud of him.  He looked like a million in his uniform.  That terrible khaki didn’t turn him into a ghost, like it does most of them.  But somewhere inside a man’s big skull, along with the honour and the glory – and the charm – there ought to be some space for good sense and – a little mutual respect.  That’s all I’m saying.