Parker's Monologue

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418/1333 But the One on the Right I knew it. I knew if I came to this dinner, IÕd draw something like this baby on my left. TheyÕve been saving him up for me for weeks. Now, weÕve simply got to have himÑhis sister was so sweet to us in London; we can stick him next to Mrs. ParkerÑshe talks enough for two. Oh, I should never have come, never. IÕm here against my better judgment. Friday, at eight-thirty, Mrs. Parker vs. her better judgment, to a decision. That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment. This is a fine time of the evening to be thinking about tombstones. ThatÕs the effect heÕs had on me, already, and the soup hardly cold yet. I should…show more content…
IÕm not going to spend the best years of my life thinking up pearls to scatter before him. IÕm going to stick to my Chablis, rotten though it be. From now on, he can go his way, and IÕll go mine. IÕm better than anybody at this table. Ah, but am I really? Have I, after all, half of what they have? Here I am lonely, unwanted, silent, and me with all my new clothes on. Oh, what would Louiseboulanger say if she saw her gold lamŽ going unnoticed like this? ItÕs life, I suppose. Poor little things, we dress, and we plan, and we hopeÑand for what? What is life, anyway? A death sentence. The longest distance 422/1333 melancholy before I even start. I wonder what this stiff on my left would say, if I told him I was in a fair way to get vin triste. Oh, look at him, hoeing into his fish! What…show more content…
His soul canÕt rise above food. Purely physical, thatÕs all he is. Digging his grave with his teeth, thatÕs what heÕs doing. Yah, yah, ya-ah! Digging your grave with your tee eeth! Making a god of your stommick! Yah, yah, ya-ah! He doesnÕt care if I get vin triste. Nobody cares. Nobody gives a damn. And me so nice. All right, you baskets, IÕll drink myself to death, right in front of your eyes, and see how youÕll feel. Here I go. . . . Oh, my God, itÕs Chablis. And of a year when the grapes failed, and they used Summer squash, instead. Fifteen dollars for all you can carry home on your shoulder. Oh, now, listen, where I come from, we feed this to the pigs. I think IÕll ask old Chatterbox on my left if this isnÕt rotten wine. That ought to open up a 424/1333 between two points. The bunch of hay thatÕs tied to the nose of the tired mule. TheÑÑ Well, well, well, here we are at the entrec™te. Button up your entrec™te , when the wind is freeÑno, I guess not. Now IÕll be damned if I ask old Loquacity if he likes meat. In the first place, his likes and dislikes are nothing to me, and in the secondÑwell, look at him go after it! He must have been playing hard all afternoon; heÕs

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