BENNY, AT 40
By: Benjamin Gavarre
BENNY, AT 40 © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
Genre: Monologue / Stand-Up Comedy
Setting: Los Angeles / New York (Adaptable
Club Setting)
CHARACTERS
- BENNY (40): A man on the absolute verge of 40,
comically terrified, weighed down by imaginary physical ailments, and
locked in an exaggerated, pathetic, and hilarious existential crisis.
- JOHN-JOHN (An adult styled as a YOUNG MAN): A
bearded adult actor dressed in a kid's pair of overalls and light-up
sneakers. He
looks after Benny and humors him completely.
SINGLE SCENE
(STAGE LIGHTS AT FULL BLAST. BENNY enters. He
doesn't walk with regular fatigue, but with absolute rigidity, as if he had a
broomstick strapped directly to his spine. He evaluates every single step like
a bomb technician clearing a minefield. He stops center stage, grimaces in
agony, clutches his lower back, and lets out a sigh that rattles the mics).
BENNY:
Oh, sweet mother of God! Good evening, Los
Angeles! Thank you for coming out! Welcome, everybody... oh, my sciatica...
This is: Benny, at 40. My fateful birthday is three weeks away, but
before that tragic milestone hits, I'm here to try and entertain you while
relentless, ruthless time ticks away... ouch!
(He tries to straighten up slowly. A
simulated joint-cracking sound effect echoes through the speakers).
BENNY:
Seriously, though... what is up with time?
Did anyone else go to sleep at twenty-two... and wake up today at three in the
afternoon with thirty-nine years on the clock, three mosquito bites, a tweaked
lower back, and a gas bill you literally cannot read without bifocals? The
future got here way too fast! And it caught us with our pants completely down.
(Pause).
I don't know about you guys, but I'm having
an existential crisis so deep it feels like a global economic meltdown—there's
always some meltdown happening anyway: I'm essentially in ICU, running purely
on thoughts and prayers, just weeks away from being happily rescued by Social
Security... ouch! It hurts, but honestly? Kind of into it.
Because I remember when you're twenty, you're
basically immortal, right? You'd eat six heavy-ass carne asada street tacos
with extra salsa, onions, cilantro, and a giant horchata at four in the
morning. You’d pound two tequila shots, drink whatever sketchy mystery liquid
was in someone's plastic cup, sleep for three hours on the freezing concrete
floor of some underground warehouse rave... and wake up the next morning
looking like a Renaissance painting of a cherub! Forever young!
But today? Today, hell no. You wake
up, peer into the bathroom mirror through half-closed eyes so you don't scare
yourself to death... and realize you're trapped in a Greek tragedy directed by
a film student. Alas, I am Oedipus, and these were my youthful eyes!
You look down at your stomach... a cute
little craft-beer belly that already has its own life insurance policy, pays
rent, and votes for the absolute worst candidates on the ballot. But it gets
worse, you keep exploring further down... and boom: Another tragedy—or
comedy, who knows? You've got gray hairs down in the pubes! You already had
gray hair on your head, in your ears, on your chest... and yes, ladies and
gentlemen, cue the drumroll please... gray hair where the sun literally never
shines! Nooooo!
(Pause).
I didn't even know that was legally allowed
to happen, you know?
(He takes a couple of steps, freezes dead in
his tracks, and grabs his left knee with both hands).
BENNY:
CRACK! Did you
guys hear that? My left knee just seceded from the union! At my age, the body
doesn't just age; it declares a full labor strike. It refuses to lift heavy
things or walk up flights of stairs, period! My knee now functions as a local
weather app: if it aches and throbs, it’s gonna rain; if it clicks and burns,
it means traffic on the 405 is completely gridlocked. I could literally work on
local morning news as the hot weather guy. Well, the aging-hot-guy weather
forecaster. Granted, since I’m not a twenty-something influencer with a ring
light, they don't call me... their loss, because my damp, aching bones are
extremely accurate. Today... it's gonna pour.
This bodily betrayal is deeply unfair. My
body isn't what it used to be! Even the guys at the corner bodega or 7-Eleven
don't recognize me anymore. The other day I went in to buy my absolute favorite
treats: unfiltered cigarettes, dark stout beer, and sugar-free marshmallows,
because I can no longer afford the luxury of chewing hard foods. I tell the guy
behind the counter:
—Hey man, you know: the usual.
BENNY (acting as the indifferent clerk,
deadpan):
—The usual? ...Excuse me, sir... do I know
you?
BENNY:
—It’s me, Benny, bro! Come on, man... I've
been shopping here for fifteen years! Did you just call me "sir"?
BENNY (as the clerk):
—Oh, snap! My bad, boss. Look... no offense,
man, but with that pillow-flattened bedhead and those eighty brand-new
wrinkles—you've got crow's feet on your crow's feet—I didn't recognize you.
Here’s your usual, sir. Like always... sir.
BENNY:
Sir! He
called me "sir"! Twice! Three times! I should've flipped the chip
rack over, roundhoused the slurpee machine, and stolen his chocolate muffins...
but I didn't, because I'm a good person... and because I would've lost access
to my sugar-free marshmallows, which are literally the only thing I can digest
without triggering an existential heartburn.
Oh, and don't get me started on my teeth! My
dentist of twenty years thinks she's a comedian: "Don't worry, Benny, your
adult teeth aren't growing back because you're not a kid anymore. But for a
small, ten-year financing plan, we can drill titanium screws straight into your
jawbone and bring back your smile." Titanium screws?! I don't want
hardware installed in my face! I don't want screws in my mouth; what I want is
for the Tooth Fairy to come back, leave me twenty bucks for every tooth that
falls out, and magically give me a fresh set of brand-new molars... Yeah,
right, only in my dreams. Sigh.
Listen, at this advanced age, you start
getting weird... anti-social. Paranoid. Lazy. You spend hours glued to a
massive La-Z-Boy recliner that takes up eighty percent of your living room.
Because I ask you... why stand up when you can achieve zero-gravity astronaut
status while binge-watching some mediocre Netflix true-crime docuseries? Your
ultimate Friday night aspiration is no longer going to a sweaty indie rock show
in Silver Lake to get elbowed in the ribs by people who are now also exhausted
thirty-somethings.
Frankly, my ultimate aspiration in life is
getting plans cancelled to any party in Glendale, North Hollywood, or Studio
City, especially those terrible birthday gatherings in Echo Park. If the text
drops saying, "Hey man, we're postponing," I whisper: Thank you,
sweet baby Jesus! You won! You get to stay home, microwave some instant
ramen with extra lime and hot sauce... your mouth starts watering just thinking
about it... put on your duck slippers by 7:00 PM, and have a magnificent,
glorious sleep-orgasm with your marshmallows and Netflix. And boom, you wake up
at 4:00 AM, crawl into your actual bed, and go right back to sleep, thrilled
you skipped that awful party. Ah, bliss.
(SUDDEN LIGHT CHANGE. Benny steps forward,
but instantly freezes with wide eyes, patting down his pockets in a panic).
BENNY:
Wait... hold on a second. Do I have my keys?
Let me check... jacket... pants... oh, you've got to be kidding me. Did I leave
the stove on? I had a pot of beans simmering on the back burner since this
morning! No, no, no... wait, I thought I turned it off, but what if I didn't
and right now my entire apartment complex is burning to the ground? What if the
neighbors already called the fire department and they're taking a chainsaw to
my bathroom door where I left my most embarrassing underwear hanging to dry?
(He bites his lip, staring intensely at
someone in the front row).
Ma'am, excuse me, do you believe in gas leaks
and household negligence? Because I suddenly remembered I rushed out the door
and... oh man. If my place burns down, the only valuable things I own are my
bootleg concert tees and three rolls of Costco toilet paper I hoarded back in
2020. Good grief, the stove!
(He pulls out a set of imaginary keys,
jingles them loudly, and lets out a massive sigh of relief).
Oh, never mind. Here are the keys. They were
literally in my hand the whole time. And the stove... yeah, I'm pretty sure I
turned it off. Or at least my blind faith in divine intervention says so.
Anyway, let's keep going before I actually have a stroke.
(At that exact moment, JOHN-JSON—played by a
large, bearded adult actor dressed in a kid's pair of overalls and light-up
neon sneakers—runs screaming down the center aisle, stomping heavily toward the
stage).
JOHN-JOHN:
WAAAAAH! I'M A SPACE FIRE DRAGON!
(Benny jumps out of his skin, smacks his
chest in sheer terror, and lets out a high-pitched shriek).
BENNY:
Aaaaah! A
six-foot-tall toddler in neon sneakers! Who let this bearded kid into the
venue?! Is he an undercover IRS agent trying to audit me because I've been
writing angry complaints about property taxes on X?!
(Benny points a selfie stick at him like a
spear, breathing heavily. John-John freezes right at the edge of the stage,
striking an exaggerated monster pose. Benny squints, rubs his eyes, squints
harder, takes a step closer... and his entire expression instantly melts into
relief).
BENNY:
Oh, snap! My bad... sorry! You're not
a millennial demonic entity! It's just you, man. Thank god you made it.
Everyone look, this is John-John, my nephew! He’s, uh... very tall!
(To the audience, looking deeply
embarrassed).
I swear to you guys, my blurry vision doesn't
work past ten feet anymore! Between the astigmatism and the dim lighting, I
genuinely thought the Grim Reaper had shown up in glowing sneakers to harvest
my soul, and it turns out it's just my nephew coming to rescue me so I don't
have to walk home alone!
(He leans down slightly toward John-John with
total camaraderie).
Hey, John-John... did you bring the official
ride? You did? Did you check the tires on the bike? You're a genius, little
buddy! And yes, he's my nephew, don't be weird about it... I mean, I'm only ten
or fifteen years older than him... look, whatever, he's my savior. Don't look
at me like that! Walking home alone at night is sketch. I'd call an Uber, but
you know how those modern apps are: I type in West Hollywood and it drops me
off in the middle of a sketchy alley in DTLA. I have a curse with mapping apps.
But hey! Tonight, my nephew is driving his turbo-charged vehicle while I scream
instructions like a madman. Clear the street, Batman and Robin are rolling out!
(Looking out at the audience with his chest
puffed out, proudly regaining his posture).
See? There is hope for the future, ladies and
gentlemen! The youth are not our enemies. The youth are the ones who are going
to wheel us home on bicycle pegs when our knees finally give out completely.
Let's hear it for the younger generation whose joints don't pop! Let's roll,
John-John, the streets are ours. Thank you, wonderful people, until next
time... haha, let's go fast, little buddy!
(A heavy rock beat like Guns N' Roses blasts
through the speakers, instantly transitioning into a high-energy funk/disco
groove à la Jamiroquai. The stage lights shift to vibrant party colors).
BENNY:
Crisis averted, Los Angeles! John-John, drop
the beat! Show these old folks how people with healthy knee cartilage dance!
(John-John starts busting out a wildly
energetic, modern dance routine. Benny tries to copy him with incredible
enthusiasm, but on the second step he makes a false move, lets out a loud
"OUCH!", and grabs his hip. Instead of stopping, he weaves his bodily
pain straight into the rhythm. He turns his limp, his back spasms, and his
cramps into a hilariously absurd, improvised choreography alongside the kid,
who dances around him cheering).
BENNY:
Cherish your cartilage, my friends! Hug your
nephews! And if you find a gray hair in the forbidden zone tomorrow... don't
pluck it, throw it a block party!
(John-John hops onto a prop bicycle left on
stage. Benny struggles a bit to hop on behind him, grabbing John-John by the
shoulders. They pretend to speed off together to the beat of the music, limping
along cheerfully as they exit stage left
BENNY:
Good night, L.A.! Let's cruise, John-John...
wait, not that fast, my sciatica is flaring up, take it easy... Goodbye!
(LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK AS THE MUSIC SURGES TO
MAXIMUM VOLUME AND AUDIENCE APPLAUSE FILLS THE ROOM).
CURTAIN / END OF MONOLOGUE
