Daily Joke: Jokes Library

It was 2:00 AM when Sarah woke up and reached across the bed, only to find the sheets cold. Her husband, Mark, wasn’t there. Frowning, she slipped on her robe and padded softly down the hallway. She followed the faint glow of the stove light into the kitchen, where she found Mark sitting at the small wooden table, staring blankly into a mug of coffee.

“What’s the matter, dear?” she whispered gently, stepping into the room. “Why are you down here at this time of night?”

Mark looked up, his eyes red and his expression solemn. He took a slow sip of his coffee before speaking. “Do you remember twenty years ago, when we were first dating?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Sarah’s heart softened. “Yes, I do,” she replied, pulling out a chair and sitting beside him.

Mark paused, swallowing hard as if the words were difficult to get out. “Do you remember the night your father caught us in the back seat of your car?”

A nostalgic smile touched Sarah’s lips. “Yes, I remember,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

“Do you remember,” Mark continued, his voice trembling slightly, “when he pulled out his shotgun, shoved it right in my face, and said, ‘Either you marry my daughter, or I’ll see to it that you spend the next twenty years in prison’?”

Sarah’s smile faded into a look of tender sympathy. She squeezed his hand, thinking he was bringing this up to reflect on their long journey together. “I remember that too, darling. It was such a crazy time.”

Mark wiped a single tear from his cheek, looked down at his coffee, and sighed heavily.

“I would have gotten out today.”

Margaret was absolutely furious. Her husband, David, was late coming home again—this time for their anniversary dinner, no less. She had spent two hours cooking his favorite meal, set the table with the good china, and lit candles that were now burning down to stubs. When she finally heard his car pull into the driveway at 9:30 PM, she was seething.

Instead of confronting him directly, Margaret decided to teach him a lesson. She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and scrawled a note: “I’ve had enough. I’ve left you. Don’t bother trying to find me.”

She placed the note prominently on the bedroom dresser, then crawled under the bed to watch his reaction. She wanted to see the panic, the regret, the desperate attempts to call her back.

A few minutes later, David came into the bedroom. She could hear him in the kitchen first, then his footsteps approaching. Through the gap between the bed skirt and the floor, she watched him walk to the dresser and pick up the note.

He read it. Then he read it again.

Margaret held her breath, waiting for him to crumble.

Instead, David calmly sat down at the desk, wrote something on the back of the note, and picked up the phone. Margaret’s heart sank as she heard his side of the conversation.

“She’s finally gone,” he said, his voice casual, almost relieved. “Yeah, I know, it’s about time. I’m coming to see you right now. Put on that French nightie you bought—the black one. I love you… can’t wait to see you. We’ll do all the naughty things you like.”

He hung up, grabbed his car keys from the nightstand, and walked out. A moment later, Margaret heard the front door close and the car engine start. She listened as it drove away.

She crawled out from under the bed, her face red with rage, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed the note to see what he had written, what final insult he had left behind.

She flipped it over and read his handwriting:

“I can see your feet. We’re out of bread. Be back in five minutes.”

Seven-year-old Lily was, without exaggeration, obsessed with dolls. Her bedroom looked less like a place to sleep and more like a museum of porcelain, plastic, and plush. One rainy Tuesday, while wandering through a dusty, dimly lit antique shop on her own, she spotted it: the most beautiful, intricately detailed doll she had ever seen. It had delicate lace, striking glass eyes, and an undeniable air of mystery. She just had to have it.

She marched up to the counter, where a wrinkled, suspicious-looking old woman was knitting. “How much is that doll, ma’am?” Lily asked, pointing to the masterpiece.

The old woman stopped knitting and glared at her. “That doll is not for sale.”

Lily pouted. “But it’s so beautiful! I really want it. I have my allowance money!”

The old woman sighed, her irritation growing. “I told you, child, it’s not for sale. Because that doll is cursed!”

Lily blinked, completely unfazed. “Well… that’s okay. I don’t mind a little curse.”

“I am not going to sell it to you,” the woman snapped. “But if you really must have it, go ahead and take it. It’s yours. But if something bad happens, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Ah! Yes, thank you!” Lily beamed, snatching the doll and sprinting out of the shop before the woman could change her mind.

Thrilled to get such a gorgeous toy for free, Lily ran all the way home. She burst into the lobby of her apartment building, which was completely deserted and eerily quiet. She stepped into the elevator, clutching her new prize tightly to her chest, and waited.

The doors slid shut with a heavy thud. But the elevator didn’t move.

Silence fell over the small cab. Lily’s heart began to pound. She looked around nervously. Oh no, she thought, her imagination running wild. Is this it? Is this the curse of the doll?

Suddenly, she felt a shift in her arms. The doll was moving.

Ever so slowly, the doll’s head turned to face her. Lily wanted to scream, but her throat was completely paralyzed with terror.

The doll’s eyelids fluttered and snapped open. It stared at her with its lifeless, unblinking glass eyes.

Then, its little painted mouth opened, and in a raspy, demonic voice, it said:

“Push the button to go up, bitch!”

Arthur was sitting in his usual spot at Tony’s Barbershop, enjoying the familiar scent of talcum powder and warm aftershave, when he casually mentioned he was flying to Rome the next day. Tony, who was carefully trimming Arthur’s sideburns, immediately stopped the clippers.

“Rome?” Tony scoffed, shaking his head. “Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded, it’s dirty, and the pickpockets are everywhere. You’re crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re taking American Airlines,” Arthur replied, watching in the mirror as Tony went back to work. “We got a really great rate.”

“American Airlines?” Tony exclaimed, throwing his hands up slightly. “That’s a terrible airline! Their planes are ancient, the flight attendants are grumpy, and they’re always delayed. So, where are you staying?”

“We’ll be at the downtown International Marriott,” Arthur said patiently.

Tony let out a loud, dismissive laugh. “That dump! That’s the worst hotel in the city. The rooms are the size of a closet, the service is awful, and they totally overcharge you. So, whatcha doing when you get there?”

“We’re going to tour the Vatican,” Arthur said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “We’re really hoping to see the Pope.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Tony chuckled, snipping away. “You and about a million other tourists. You’ll be standing at the very back of

St. Peter’s Square, and from that distance, he’ll look the size of a speck of dust. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours.

You’re really going to need it.”

A month later, Arthur was back in the exact same chair for his regular haircut. Tony immediately asked him about the trip, expecting to hear a tale of woe.

“It was absolutely wonderful,” Arthur explained with a calm smile. “Not only were we on time in one of American Airlines’s brand-new planes, but it was overbooked, so they bumped us up to first class for free. The food and wine were incredible, and

I had a gorgeous twenty-eight-year-old stewardess who waited on me hand and foot. And the hotel was amazing! They had just finished a $25 million remodeling job, so it’s the finest hotel in the city. They were overbooked, too, so they apologized and gave us the presidential suite at no extra charge!”

Tony blinked, clearly stunned. He adjusted his grip on the comb and muttered, “Well… I know you didn’t get to see the Pope, though.”

“Actually, we were quite lucky,” Arthur said, his eyes twinkling in the mirror. “As we were touring the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder. He explained that the Pope likes to personally greet a few special visitors, and asked if I’d step into his private room to wait. Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door, smiled, and shook my hand! I knelt down as he spoke a few words to me.”

Tony’s jaw practically dropped. “Really? What’d he say to you?”

Arthur looked Tony dead in the eye in the mirror and replied:

“He looked at me, sighed, and said, ‘Son, I have traveled lands far and wide, met people of all creeds, and waved to millions from my balcony… but you must have the worst barber in the entire world.'”

Dr. Harold Mitchell had spent twenty-three years as a proctologist, and frankly, he was burned out. The endless colonoscopies, the awkward patient conversations, the smell of industrial-strength air freshener permanently embedded in his scrubs—it had all taken its toll. One Tuesday morning, after yet another particularly grueling procedure, he sat in his office staring at the wall and thought, I need a complete change. Something mechanical. Something clean.

After weeks of research, he made his decision: he would become a mechanic. He enrolled in the prestigious Henderson Technical

Institute, attended every class diligently, took meticulous notes, and practiced on engines until his hands were permanently stained with grease. He was determined to be the best darn mechanic in town, even if his background was a little… unconventional.

After six months of intensive training, the day of the final practical exam arrived. Harold was paired with a classic V8 engine that needed a complete teardown and rebuild. He rolled up his sleeves, took a deep breath, and got to work.

Three hours later, the exam was over. Harold wiped his hands on a rag and waited nervously for the results. When the instructor, a grizzled old mechanic named Frank, posted the grades on the bulletin board, Harold’s jaw dropped.

There, next to his name, it read: 150%

Harold marched straight to Frank’s desk. “Sir, this has to be a mistake,” he said, pointing at the paper. “You’ve given me 150% out of a possible 100%. That’s mathematically impossible.”

Frank looked up from his coffee, a slow grin spreading across his weathered face. “It’s no mistake, Dr. Mitchell. Let me break it down for you. Fifty percent of your grade is for perfect disassembly of the engine—you nailed that. Another fifty percent is for perfect reassembly—you did that flawlessly too.”

Harold blinked. “Then where does the extra fifty percent come from?”

Frank leaned back in his chair, chuckled, and said:

“I gave you another fifty percent on top because you did the whole thing through the exhaust pipe.”