My standby auditon monologue is from a play called How Gertrude Stormed the Philosophers' Club, by Martin Epstein, published in (I believe) the Best Short Plays of 1986-7. Let me see if I can remember it.
Yes. I have. Tried. Communicating. I have also tried pounding on the wall with a broomstick, a ballpeen hammer, and a bowling ball. But all he does, gentlemen, is turn his music up, up, UP! He slams his doors! He talks on the phone for all hours in this squeaking tone of voice. And, when his friends come over, he keeps me up half the night doing his Tallula Bankhead imiatation. Or, if he's in a more somber mood, he puts on his Great Moments in the Life of Hitler album, and, gentlemen, I need not tell you how that ends. Gentlemen, I am not homophobic. I do not wish to kill my neighbor because of his lifestyle, or because of his putrid taste in music. I wish to kill him because I can no longer tolerate the quality of his life.
Crap. That's close, but not quite it. It got me some good roles in college, and no one's ever heard of it, so it isn't tired. Oh, and htis character is a waiter in a real old boys' club in New York who's pulled a gun on a couple of the oldest members. Does that help? Anyway, I enjoy the monologue. I wish I could remember it exactly. Break a leg.