Daily Joke: Jokes Library

It was a crisp Tuesday afternoon, and Arthur was strolling down the high street, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

Suddenly, he was approached by a particularly disheveled, shabby-looking man who looked like he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a decade.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man rasped, holding out a trembling hand. “Could you spare a couple of dollars for some dinner?”

Arthur paused, reached into his leather wallet, and extracted a crisp ten-dollar bill. But instead of handing it over, he narrowed his eyes and began a highly specific interrogation.

“If I give you this money,” Arthur asked slowly, “will you buy some beer with it instead of dinner?”

“No, sir,” the man replied earnestly. “I had to stop drinking years ago.”

“Will you use it to gamble instead of buying food?” Arthur pressed.

“No, I don’t gamble,” the man said, shaking his head. “I need every single penny I can get just to stay alive.”

“Will you spend this on greens fees at a golf course instead of food?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you NUTS?!” the man exclaimed, genuinely offended. “I haven’t played golf in twenty years!”

“Will you spend the money on a woman in the red-light district instead of food?” Arthur asked, leaning in slightly.

“What disease would I possibly get for ten lousy bucks?!” the man shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Arthur smiled warmly, folded the ten-dollar bill, and put it back in his pocket. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “I’m not going to give you the money. Instead, I’m going to take you home with me for a terrific, home-cooked dinner prepared by my wife.”

The shabby man was absolutely astounded. He took a step back, looking down at his torn clothes. “Won’t your wife be furious with you for bringing me home? I know I’m dirty, and I probably smell pretty disgusting.”

Arthur placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, his smile never wavering, and replied:

“That’s perfectly okay. It’s incredibly important for her to see exactly what a man looks like after he has given up beer, gambling, golf, and sex.”

A charismatic, top-tier magician was booked for a six-month gig on a luxury Caribbean cruise ship. Because the passengers changed every single week, he had the luxury of performing the exact same repertoire of tricks over and over again without anyone ever catching on.

Or so he thought.

There was just one massive problem: the Captain’s pet parrot. The bird sat in the rigging above the stage every single

Saturday night, watching the show with beady, hyper-intelligent eyes. After a few weeks, the parrot had completely figured out the mechanics of every single illusion. And worse, he felt compelled to share his findings with the audience.

Right in the middle of a perfectly executed sleight-of-hand, the parrot would squawk from the ceiling: “Look! It’s not the same hat!”

During the vanishing flower trick, the bird would screech: “He’s hiding the carnations under the table!”

And during the card trick, the parrot would flap its wings and yell, “Hey! Why are all the cards the Ace of Spades?!”

The magician was absolutely furious. His grand finale was being ruined week after week by a feathered heckler. But he couldn’t do a thing about it, because it was the Captain’s beloved parrot, and throwing a bird overboard would definitely result in him walking the plank.

Then, one fateful Tuesday, the ship hit a hidden reef and tragically sank.

Miraculously, the magician survived. He found himself floating in the middle of the vast, blue ocean on a small piece of wooden debris. And, of course, floating right next to him on the exact same piece of wood, was the parrot.

The two of them stared at each other with pure, unadulterated hatred. The magician glared at the bird; the bird glared back. But neither of them uttered a single word. This tense, silent, bitter standoff lasted for three entire days and three entire nights.

Finally, on the seventh day, the parrot ruffled its damp feathers, let out a long, exhausted sigh, looked the magician dead in the eye, and said:

“Okay, I give up. What’d you do with the boat?”

Emily was just days away from tying the knot, and the pre-wedding jitters were setting in. Seeking some wisdom, she wandered into the kitchen to watch her mother, Martha, bake a fresh batch of biscuits.

“Mom?” Emily asked, leaning against the counter. “You and Dad have been happily married for over thirty years. What’s your secret? How do you keep him so happy after all this time?”

Martha stopped kneading, wiped her floury hands on her apron, and gave her daughter a deadpan, utterly serious look. Without saying a word, she promptly threw a wad of sticky biscuit dough onto the kitchen floor. She then hiked up her floral dress, squatted down right over the dough, and somehow managed to pick it up off the floor using her privates.

Emily stood there, completely frozen in shock, her jaw practically on the linoleum.

Martha stood back up, dropped the dough into the trash, and smoothed her dress down as if nothing had happened. “Practice that,” she said calmly, “and when you can do it, I guarantee your man will be satisfied for the rest of his life.”

Confused, slightly horrified, but deeply trusting of her mother’s marital wisdom, Emily spent the next few days practicing in private until she felt she had mastered the bizarre technique.

Finally, the wedding night arrived. Her anxious new husband was waiting in the bedroom, expecting a romantic, passionate evening. Instead, Emily emerged from the bathroom wearing a stunning, sexy silk negligee… and carrying a refrigerated can of Pillsbury biscuit dough.

Her husband watched in bewildered silence as she popped the can open, dramatically threw the raw dough onto the bedroom carpet, lifted her negligee, and squatted directly over it. But instead of executing her mother’s flawless technique, she let out a thunderous, room-shaking fart.

Her husband’s eyes bulged. Startled and terrified, he practically levitated off the mattress, scrambling backward until his back hit the bedroom wall.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Emily asked innocently, still squatting over the dough.

He stared at her in sheer, unadulterated horror and yelled:

“Shit, woman! If that thing barks like that for a biscuit, I sure as hell don’t want to throw any meat at it!”

The rhythmic, slow beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the dimly lit hospital room. Arthur, a frail elderly gentleman, was on his deathbed. Gathered closely around him were his devoted wife, Martha, his three grown children, and a young nurse who quietly monitored his vitals with deep sympathy.

Arthur took a shallow, trembling breath and reached out, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a final, monumental decree.

“Bill,” he rasped, looking at his eldest son. “You take the Beverly Hills houses.”

He turned his cloudy eyes to his daughter. “Mary, you take the offices in the Center Center.”

“Debra,” he sighed, “the apartments over the L.A. Plaza are yours.”

Finally, he turned to his weeping wife, squeezing her hand with the last of his strength. “And to my dear, darling

Martha… take all the residential buildings near downtown.”

With his final wishes spoken, Arthur closed his eyes, slipping into a peaceful sleep.

The young nurse, who had been silently wiping away a tear, looked at the family in sheer, unadulterated awe. “I am so sorry for your loss,” she whispered respectfully. “But I have to say, your husband must have been quite the man.

Amassing such a massive real estate empire to leave behind for all of you… it’s truly inspiring.”

Martha stared at the nurse for a long, exhausted moment. She slowly wiped her face with a tissue, let out a heavy sigh, and replied:

“What property? …The schmuck just had a paper route!”

It was a busy Tuesday afternoon at the local pharmacy, and Chloe, a well-meaning but famously naive blonde, was on a mission. Determined to be responsible and practice safe sex amidst all the scary health headlines she’d been reading, she marched down the family planning aisle, grabbed a basic pack of condoms, and walked up to the checkout counter.

The bored teenage cashier scanned the box without looking up. “That will be $1.08, please,” he mumbled, holding out his hand for the cash.

Chloe paused, digging into her purse. She pulled out the box and squinted at the price sticker on the back. “Excuse me,” she said politely, tapping the label. “But it says exactly one dollar right here on the packaging. What’s the extra 8 cents for?”

The cashier sighed, popped his chewing gum, and pointed a lazy finger at the digital register screen. “Tax,” he replied flatly.

Chloe’s eyes instantly widened in sheer, unadulterated horror. She stared at the box, then looked back at the cashier with a deeply concerned expression, and said:
“Gee… I thought you just rolled them on and they stayed put!”