Daily Joke: Jokes Library

It was the peak of the holiday season, and the line at the Pearly Gates was moving at a brisk, festive pace. Saint Peter, feeling particularly generous and in the Christmas spirit, decided to add a little seasonal flair to the standard admission process.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Saint Peter announced, adjusting his spectacles. “In honor of this holy season, I have a special requirement. To gain entry into Heaven today, each of you must produce an item from your pockets that symbolizes Christmas.”

The first man, a bit nervous but eager, fumbled through his coat pockets. He pulled out a standard, silver Bic lighter. He flicked it on, producing a small, steady flame. “It represents a candle,” he explained hopefully.

Saint Peter smiled warmly. “A light in the darkness. Very good. You may pass through the Pearly Gates.”

The second man stepped forward, digging deep into his trousers. He pulled out a heavy, jangling set of house and car keys. He gave them a vigorous shake, producing a loud, metallic jingle. “They’re bells,” he declared with a confident nod.

Saint Peter chuckled. “Jingle all the way. Excellent. You may also pass through the Pearly Gates.”

Then came the third man. He began patting down his pockets with increasing desperation. He checked his jacket, his trousers, and even his socks, his face growing pale with panic. Finally, with a look of sheer defeat, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lacy, bright red pair of women’s panties.

Saint Peter stopped. He lowered his ledger, raised a single, highly skeptical eyebrow, and stared at the man in utter bewilderment. “I must ask,” the saint said, his voice dripping with divine confusion, “and just what on earth do those symbolize?”

The man looked the panties dead in the eye, looked back up at Saint Peter, and replied with absolute, deadpan sincerity:

“They’re Carols.”

A woman was scanning the guests at a party when she spotted an attractive man standing by himself. She decided to walk over and introduce herself.

“My name is Carmen,” she said with a smile.

“That’s a beautiful name,” the man replied. “Is it a family name?”

“No,” she said. “I actually chose it myself. It represents two of my favorite things in life—cars and men. Put them together and you get Car-men.”

She smiled proudly at her clever explanation.

Then she leaned a little closer and asked, “So, what’s your name?”

The man paused for a moment, thought about his own favorite things, and grinned.

“Nice to meet you, Carmen. My name is B.J. Titsenbeer.”

Arthur Johnson, a hardworking businessman from chilly Wisconsin, had just landed in the humid, sweltering heat of Louisiana for a week-long corporate trip. Eager to reassure his wife, Jennifer, he sat down at the hotel desk and quickly typed out an email to let her know he’d made it safely. Unfortunately, in his haste, he missed a single letter in her email address. Instead of going to Jennifer, the message instantly pinged into the inbox of a Mrs. Joan Johnson.

Joan was the grieving widow of a beloved local preacher who had tragically passed away and been laid to rest just that very morning. Seeking a brief, quiet distraction from her sorrow, she opened her laptop and saw the new message notification. She clicked it open, and her blood instantly ran cold.

The email read:
“Dearest, I’ve arrived safely. The flight was fine, but it sure is blazing hot down here. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love, your husband.”

Joan took one look at the screen, let out a piercing shriek, and promptly fainted dead away onto the living room rug.

Her sister and a neighbor rushed in, fanning her face and splashing cool water on her forehead until she finally fluttered her eyes open. Still trembling, pale as a ghost, and utterly convinced of the supernatural, she weakly raised a shaking finger and pointed directly at the glowing computer screen.

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?”