Short Imagined Monologues
Send your short imagined monologues to email@example.com.
An Aspiring Club DJ Reluctantly Moves On To Weddings.
After our meeting today, you two can keep looking for a DJ for your wedding. But I’m betting you won’t. Because what I’m offering is everything you have ever wanted or dreamed of.
My motto is: I cater to my audience—my clients. I had this couple who could not agree on what song to be introduced to at their reception. He wanted Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” She wanted Darude’s “Sandstorm.” Now, most DJs, in this situation, would shake their heads and shrug their shoulders. They’d be stuck on how to “wed” a hardcore-metal ballad with a synthed-up Euro techno chant.
“We’re not marital counselors!” they’d say. “We’re party people!”
But listen, I am all about the partying. I am all about the club. But I am more about the love, feel me? So, in this situation, I decided to play the two songs together. I mashed them up. Led one into the other. And when the happy couple strutted into a banquet hall, their friends and family cheering, the groom headbanging, the bride tripping out all freaky style, I knew I had consummated the musical metaphor of their matrimony.
Not a Metallica fan? Ha! I know this big guy is, right? But ok, no biggie. No biggie. Never heard of trance either? Really? Never? Fine, no problem, who cares? What’s trance? Ha! I was just using the example, with the point being: I am here for you. That is what is important. You want more traditional? More conservative? More boring—only messing, only kidding. You got it. I will deliver tradition.
So let’s talk about a Conga Line. Now that is traditional. Our grandparents were having Conga Lines in the ‘30s, guys. It’s a fact. Google it. And I so can do those. I got a case of congas, moraccas, bongos—pretty much, you name a noisemaker, I got you covered.
What’s that? No organized dancing? Then noooooo organized dancing!
How about silly hats? Crazy glasses? Boas and stuff? We can bust that out. Always gets the party started. Guaranteed, you drape a pink boa around a bridesmaid’s bare shoulders, a minimum of seven guys will be up on that.
Huh? No? Really? No props? Two of your bridesmaids are pregnant? Yikes, buzzkill!
But ok, ok, ok, I’m picking up on you two. I’m getting a vibe. “No props,” I mean, you might as well check the box that says, “No fun.” But whatever. I’m the DJ. I’m here for you!
You have some other requests? Sure, go ahead. Hit me with them.
No photobooths. No shout-outs. No synchronized dancing. No songs with cursing. No antagonizing the guests to get up on the dance floor. No calling out guests. No drinking while I’m working. No advertisements for my business. No Electric Slide. No Chicken Dance. No Macarena. No YMCA. No songs from between the years 1989-1993.
Guys, I mean, have you thought this through? I am here for you. I am. I cater to my clients—I printed that on my business cards. But, seriously, do you understand how central a DJ is to the party? Have you been to a wedding? The DJ is the wedding! He runs the show! He makes the party!
You know, it’s funny. It is really—funny. But I just got to say: you are tying my hands here. Yes, you are. And it is totally not fair. You promised Mom that you would treat me like a professional, Mike. Stephanie, Stephanie, look, hold up, I’m sorry, but you are not family yet. Ok? And this is about family. It’s about Mike being his usual dickish self and trying to boss me around like I’m in the fifth grade, asking to play his Gameboy.
You have no idea, Stephanie, what you’re getting yourself into. Mike is all about Mike. And he’s about as fun as a canker sore. And he wants to suck all the fun from your wedding. And you’re allowing him. This is just a preview. The rest of your life will be as dull and as lifeless as Mike’s early twenties. I don’t care if he was in Medical School! He’s lame! I can count on one hand the number of times we have hung out. He’s a robot. A corpse. A frigging lump of ice floating in a barren sea miles from anything.
This meeting is over. Good luck finding a DJ. You’d be better off using an iPod. Or a record player. Or better yet, buy a harmonica, rent a monkey, and watch it alternate between playing the harp and slinging shit at your guests.
I hope you two are happy together.
I’m getting Mom.
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