Daily Joke: Jokes Library

Once upon a time, in a town where chaos had a subscription service, lived two pint-sized troublemakers—8-year-old Timmy and 10-year-old Tommy. If something exploded, vanished, or suddenly started singing show tunes, you could bet your last cookie these two were behind it. Their parents? Totally out of ideas—and sanity.

Desperate, Mom heard about a local clergyman who’d tamed wild kids like they were feral raccoons with a stern look and a well-timed “Ahem.” She booked an emergency appointment.

The good reverend insisted on seeing the boys one at a time. First up: Timmy, age 8, fresh off a recent incident involving glitter, a garden hose, and the neighbor’s poodle.

The clergyman leaned in, eyes sharp enough to slice cheese, and boomed:
“Where is God?”

Silence.

He leaned closer, voice now echoing like thunder in a tin can:
“WHERE… IS… GOD?”

Still nothing. Just Timmy sweating like he’d been caught smuggling marshmallows into church.

So the clergyman stood up, pointed a finger like it was the business end of a divine laser pointer, and bellowed:
“WHERE IS GOD???”

Timmy didn’t wait for round four. He shot out of that room faster than a Wi-Fi signal in a thunderstorm, raced home, and dove into the closet like it was a panic room.

Tommy followed, curious. “Dude,” he whispered through the coats, “what happened?”

Timmy, wide-eyed and trembling, gasped:
“We are SO busted. They’ve lost God… and they think we took Him!”

A guy strolls over to his neighbor’s place and gives the door a knock.

An 8-year-old answers, looking like he just won a staring contest with a goldfish.

“Hey there, kiddo,” says the man. “Is your mom or dad home?”

“Nope,” the kid replies. “They hauled off to town.”

“How ‘bout your brother… Howard?” the man asks, clearing his throat like he’s about to deliver bad news wrapped in awkward.

“Nah, Howard went too,” says the boy, unfazed.

The man shuffles his feet, stares at a suspicious leaf on the ground, and mutters something about karma.

The kid, sensing weakness (or opportunity), chirps:

“I know where the tools are if you need to ‘borrow’ one… or I can take a message for Dad!”

The man swallows hard. “Well… uh… I kinda need to talk to your dad about… Howard… getting my sister pregnant.”

The boy blinks once. Twice. Then says, deadpan:

“Ohhh, that’s a livestock question. Dad charges $500 for the bulls, $150 for the pigs—but honestly? I’ve got no idea what Howard’s going rate is.”

A super-smug professor hops on a plane and ends up sitting next to a quiet old man.

Halfway through the flight, the professor gets a brilliant (in his mind) idea: “Hey, wanna play a little brain game?”

The old man squints. “What kind of game?”

“I ask you a question, you ask me one,” the professor explains. “If you get mine right, I give you a buck. If you get it wrong, you give me a buck. Easy, right?” He smirks—he’s definitely about to school this guy.

But the old man just shakes his head. “Nah.”

“C’mon!” says the professor. “If I lose, I’ll give you two bucks!”
“Nope.”
“Five bucks!”
“Still no.”
“Ten?!”
“Not happening.”

Getting desperate, the professor blurts out: “Fine! If I lose, I’ll give you a hundred dollars—and if you lose, you only owe me one! That’s gotta be fair!”

The old man thinks for a sec… then sighs. “Alright… but I go first.”

“Deal!” the professor says, already picturing his victory lap.

The old man leans in and asks:
“What’s got five heads, forty feet, and lives in a bucket?”

The professor’s brain goes into overdrive. He scribbles notes, mutters to himself, even checks the overhead bins—nothing makes sense! After an hour of mental gymnastics, he finally throws in the towel.

Grumbling, he hands over $100.
Then he snaps: “Okay, fine—what is the answer?!”

The old man shrugs with a twinkle in his eye:
“Beats me! Here’s your dollar.”

One day, Pete groaned to his buddy, “Ugh, my head’s pounding like a drum solo. Maybe I should see a doc?”

His friend grinned and said, “Nah! Skip the doctor—there’s this genius computer at the pharmacy. You tell it what’s wrong, pee in a cup, pop in $20, and boom—it spits out your diagnosis faster than you can say ‘aspirin.’ Cheaper too!”

Pete thought, Why not? So he grabbed a jar, filled it with his own pee, and headed to the store. He found the machine, poured in the sample, dropped in his $20, and waited.

The computer whirred, blinked like a disco ball, and then printed out a little slip:

“You’ve got migraines. Chill out! Get sleep, drink water, and stay away from bright lights, stress, and overworking. Come back in two weeks.”

Pete was blown away. This thing’s magic! But then… a mischievous idea popped into his head. Can it really tell what’s what?

So he cooked up a “mystery smoothie”: tap water, dog poop, his wife’s pee, his daughter’s pee, and a splash of motor oil from his car. Stirred it all together like a mad scientist and marched back to the pharmacy.

He poured the Frankenstein brew into the machine, paid another $20, and said, “Still got that headache!”

The computer buzzed, flashed, and spat out a new note:

“Your tap water’s nasty.
Your dog’s got ringworm.
Your daughter’s pregnant.
Your wife’s been… busy—five guys in six months!
And your car? Needs a new radiator.

And you’re wondering why your head hurts??”

Pete turned pale… and quietly walked out—without another word.

A broke dude heads to Vegas, blows all his cash, and ends up so broke he can’t even afford a cab to the airport. But hey—why not try anyway? He hails a taxi, begs the driver to let him ride now and pay later, and even offers his number.

The driver just yells, “Get the HELL outta my cab!”

So our hero walks all the way to the airport… barefoot in spirit, if not in shoes.

Fast forward: he’s back in Vegas, this time riding a wave of beginner’s luck—and wins BIG. Suitcase full of cash, swagger turned to 11.

At the cab line, he spots that driver—the one who kicked him out last time—now waiting at the end of the queue. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. Time for sweet, sweet payback.

He walks up to the first cab:
“How much to the airport?”
“$15.”
“Awesome! How much to sleep with me on the way?”

“GET OUT!”

He does the same to the next driver. And the next. And the next. Every single one kicks him out like he just asked them to eat a cactus.

Finally, he reaches the last cab—the very driver who once banished him. The driver doesn’t recognize him.

“Hey, how much to the airport?”
“$15.”

Our guy hands him a crisp $15 bill and says, “Perfect—let’s roll!”

As they drive off, he leans out the back window, beaming, giving every furious cab driver a big ol’ thumbs-up like he just won an Oscar for Chaos.

Revenge? Served with a side of confusion—and absolutely no awkward naps.