Daily Joke: Jokes Library

It was a slow Tuesday afternoon at a local McDonald’s, and the store manager, Dave, was sifting through a towering stack of job applications, desperately hoping to find at least one candidate who knew how to properly operate a deep fryer without causing a minor fire hazard. Then, he pulled out a form filled out by a guy named Greg Bulmash, and

Dave immediately knew his day had just gotten a lot more interesting.

Under “Desired Position,” Greg had written, “Reclining. Ha ha. But seriously, whatever’s available. If I was in a position to be picky, I wouldn’t be applying here in the first place.” When it came to “Desired Salary,” Greg didn’t hold back, demanding “$185,000 a year plus stock options and a Michael Ovitz-style severance package. If that’s not possible, make an offer and we can haggle.”

The education section simply read, “Yes.” His “Last Position Held” was listed as “Reclining on my mom’s couch,” with a previous salary of “Less than I’m worth.” When asked for his most notable achievement, Greg proudly claimed his “incredible collection of stolen pens and post-it notes,” noting his reason for leaving that prestigious role was simply, “It sucked.”

Dave rubbed his temples as he continued reading. Greg claimed he was available to work “Any” hours, but his

“Preferred Hours” were strictly “1:30 to 3:30 pm, Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday.” Asked if he had any special skills, Greg cryptically replied, “Yes, but they’re better suited to a more intimate environment.” When the form asked, “May we contact your current employer?” Greg shot back, “If I had one, would I be here?”

The physical requirements section asked if he had any conditions prohibiting him from lifting up to 50 lbs. Greg’s response: “Of what?” Asked if he had a car, he countered, “I think the more appropriate question here would be, ‘Do you have a car that runs?’” As for special awards, he noted he might already be a winner of the Publisher’s

Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. When asked if he smokes, he wrote, “Only when set on fire.”

Finally, the application asked what he would like to be doing in five years. Greg didn’t miss a beat: “Living in the

Bahamas with a fabulously wealthy supermodel who thinks I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread. Actually, I’d like to be doing that now.” At the bottom, where it asked him to certify that the information was true and complete, Greg boldly wrote, “No, but I dare you to prove otherwise,” and signed his name not with a signature, but with his astrological chart: “Scorpio with Libra rising.”

Dave stared at the paper for a long moment, completely torn between throwing it in the trash and hiring Greg on the spot just to see what kind of beautiful chaos he would bring to the drive-thru window.

It was a bustling Friday night at “The Sapphire Lounge,” a popular, women-only bar known for its lively atmosphere and strong cocktails. The music was pumping, and the room was filled with laughter and clinking glasses.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors swung open, and a blind man, tapping his white cane, accidentally stumbled through the wrong entrance. Navigating by sound and the gentle guidance of a sympathetic patron, he found his way to an empty bar stool and ordered a drink.

After sitting there for a while, enjoying the vibrant energy of the room, he leaned toward the bartender, raised his voice over the music, and cheerfully announced, “Hey! You wanna hear a blonde joke?”

Instantly, the entire bar went dead silent. The jukebox seemed to pause. Fifty pairs of eyes locked onto the man at the end of the bar.

From the stool right next to him, a woman leaned in. She had a very deep, husky, and highly intimidating voice. She placed a firm hand on the bar and said, “Before you tell that joke, sir, you should know five things:

One: The bartender you’re talking to is a blonde.

Two: The bouncer standing by the door is a blonde.

Three: I am a six-foot-tall, 200-pound blonde woman with a black belt in karate.

Four: The woman sitting next to me is a blonde and a professional weightlifter.

And five: The lady to your right is a blonde and a professional wrestler.

Now, think about it very seriously, Mister. Do you still wanna tell that joke?”

The blind man sat in silence for a long moment, his head tilted as he processed the sheer, terrifying logistics of the situation. Finally, he shook his head, took a slow sip of his drink, and declared with a weary sigh:

“Nah, forget it. Not if I’m gonna have to explain it five times.”

Arthur, a hardworking but struggling mechanic, was walking home from a long shift when he spotted a thick, leather wallet lying on the pavement. He picked it up and flipped it open to check for identification.

Inside, neatly stacked, was $700 in crisp bills, along with a driver’s licence belonging to a Mr. Reginald

Pemberton, a wealthy local businessman.

Arthur did the right thing. He tracked down Mr. Pemberton’s address and returned the wallet in person, expecting nothing more than a simple thank you.

A few days later, Arthur saw a notice in the local paper: “REWARD OFFERED — $50 for the return of a lost wallet.” Arthur smiled, feeling vindicated, and made his way to Mr. Pemberton’s grand house to collect his reward.

Mr. Pemberton, a tall, imposing man in a tailored suit, took the wallet with a curt nod. He opened it, counted the bills slowly and deliberately, then looked up at Arthur with a cold, suspicious stare.

“I see,” Mr. Pemberton said, his voice dripping with condescension, “that you have already taken your reward.”

Arthur blinked in confusion. “What are you talking about, sir?”

Mr. Pemberton held up the wallet. “This wallet contained $750 when I lost it. Now there is only $700. You have clearly pocketed the difference.”

Arthur was stunned. “I didn’t take a penny! I found it exactly like this!”

But Mr. Pemberton was having none of it. The argument escalated, voices were raised, and eventually, the matter ended up in court.

On the day of the hearing, the courtroom was packed. Arthur presented his case first, his voice steady and honest, explaining exactly how he had found the wallet and returned it without question. Then Mr.

Pemberton took the stand, polished and persuasive, concluding his testimony with a direct appeal to the bench: “Your Honor, I trust you believe me. I am an honest man.”

The Judge, a sharp-eyed woman with decades on the bench, nodded calmly. “Of course, Mr. Pemberton. I believe you.”

Mr. Pemberton smiled smugly. Arthur’s shoulders slumped in devastation.

Then the Judge did something unexpected. She reached over, took the wallet directly out of Mr.

Pemberton’s hands, and placed it gently in front of Arthur.

“What are you doing?!” Mr. Pemberton yelled, leaping to his feet.

The Judge raised a hand for silence and spoke with calm, razor-sharp clarity:

“Mr. Pemberton, you are clearly an honest man. If you say your lost wallet contained $750, I have no reason to doubt you. However, the man who found this wallet is, by your own account, a liar and a thief.

And a thief certainly would not have returned the wallet at all.”

She paused, letting the logic sink in across the silent courtroom.

“Therefore, this wallet cannot possibly be yours. It must belong to somebody else. If the true owner of this $700 wallet steps forward, they shall have it. Otherwise, it remains with the honest man who found it.”

Mr. Pemberton’s face turned a deep shade of crimson. “But… what about my money? My $750?”

The Judge closed her ledger with a soft, final thud and replied:

“Well, Mr. Pemberton, we shall simply have to wait until somebody finds your wallet with the $750 in it.”

A young, determined blonde tourist was enjoying her vacation in the vibrant, humid streets of New Orleans. While browsing a high-end boutique in the French Quarter, she fell absolutely in love with a pair of genuine, handcrafted alligator-skin shoes. However, one glance at the price tag was enough to send her into immediate sticker shock.

Refusing to be ripped off by “tourist trap” prices, she huffed, turned on her heel, and marched straight out of the store. But instead of heading back to her hotel, she had a brilliantly flawed idea. She rented a pickup truck, bought a shotgun, and headed straight for the murky, mosquito-filled Louisiana bayou.

Later that evening, as the very same boutique shopkeeper was driving home along a winding swamp road, he slowed down, rubbing his eyes in sheer disbelief.

There, standing waist-deep in the dark, algae-covered water, was the blonde tourist. She was holding a shotgun with fierce determination, staring down a massive, twelve-foot alligator that was slowly closing in on her.

Without flinching, she raised the weapon, took careful aim, and fired. BANG! The creature dropped instantly, hit right between the eyes.

The shopkeeper watched in absolute amazement as she waded to the muddy bank and began the grueling struggle of hauling the massive carcass out of the water. But as his eyes adjusted to the twilight, he noticed something truly horrifying: lined up neatly on the embankment were five other enormous, dead alligators.

The blonde wiped the swamp water from her forehead, looked down at her latest conquest, and threw her hands up in pure, unadulterated frustration.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she shouted in absolute dismay. “This one isn’t wearing any shoes either!”

A stylish young woman was waiting at a busy bus stop in the middle of the city. She was dressed head to toe in black leather a fitted jacket, matching boots, and a very tight leather mini skirt.

When the bus finally arrived, everyone formed a line to get on.

As the woman reached the door, she lifted her leg to step onto the bus—but her skirt was so tight that she couldn’t raise her leg high enough to reach the first step.

Slightly embarrassed, she smiled at the bus driver, reached behind herself, and discreetly pulled down what she thought was the zipper on the back of her skirt.

“There,” she thought. “That should loosen it.”

She tried again.

Still no luck.

Now a little more embarrassed, she reached behind herself once more and pulled the zipper down a little farther.

She lifted her leg again.

Nothing. The skirt still wouldn’t give her enough room.

By now, the passengers behind her were patiently waiting while she struggled.

Determined to get on the bus, she reached behind herself for a third time and pulled the zipper down even farther.

She tried once more and still couldn’t make it onto the first step.

At that point, a big Texan standing directly behind her decided to help. He gently picked her up by the waist and placed her on the first step of the bus.

The woman immediately spun around, furious.

“How dare you!” she shouted. “You can’t just put your hands on me! I don’t even know you!”

The Texan tipped his hat and calmly replied,

“Well, ma’am, normally I’d agree with you. But after you unzipped my fly three times, I kinda figured we were already friends.”