Daily Joke: Jokes Library

Arthur and Martha had been happily married for over twenty years, sharing a beautiful home, a deep love, and exactly one major point of friction: Arthur’s morning “biological alarm clock.”

Every single day, without fail, Arthur would wake up and release a thunderous, room-shaking fart. The noise alone was enough to rattle the windows, but the accompanying smell was a toxic event that made Martha’s eyes water and left her gasping for fresh air.

For two decades, Martha had pleaded with him. “Arthur, please, you have to stop! It’s making me sick!”

But Arthur would just shrug, completely unfazed. “I can’t help it, darling. It’s perfectly natural.

Just the way the engine starts.”

Martha even begged him to see a doctor, genuinely concerned that one day the sheer pressure would cause him to blow his own guts out. But Arthur stubbornly refused to change his ways.

Then came Christmas morning. Arthur was upstairs, fast asleep and snoring peacefully.

Downstairs, Martha was in the kitchen, preparing the magnificent holiday turkey. As she reached into the cavity to pull out the packet of innards—the neck, the gizzard, the liver, and all the slimy, cold spare parts—a deeply mischievous, slightly evil thought suddenly crossed her mind.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. She grabbed a mixing bowl, scooped up the entire bowl of turkey guts, and crept silently up the stairs like a ninja on a stealth mission.

Reaching the bedroom, she gently pulled back the duvet, carefully lifted the elastic waistband of

Arthur’s sleeping shorts, and quietly emptied the entire bowl of cold, slimy turkey innards directly into his underwear. She then pulled the covers back over him, tiptoed out of the room, and waited.

About twenty minutes later, she heard it. The familiar, deep morning rumble. The mighty trumpet sounded.

And then, a split second later, a blood-curdling, house-shaking scream echoed through the hallway, followed by the sound of frantic, panicked footsteps as Arthur sprinted for the bathroom at top speed.

Martha collapsed onto the hallway carpet, rolling on the floor, crying with uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter. After twenty years of morning torture, she reckoned she had finally gotten him back in the most spectacular way possible.

About twenty minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open. Arthur emerged, pale as a ghost, sweating profusely, and wearing a pair of heavily stained boxer shorts. He had a look of absolute, shell-shocked horror on his face.

Martha bit her lip, trying desperately to suppress a fresh wave of giggles, and asked innocently,

“Good heavens, Arthur, what on earth is the matter?”

Arthur stared at her, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and sheer terror.

“Honey… you were right,” he whispered. “All these years you warned me, and I didn’t listen to you.”

“What do you mean?” Martha asked, feigning confusion.

“Well,” Arthur replied, his eyes wide with disbelief, “you always told me that one day I would end up farting my guts out. And today… it finally happened. But by the grace of God, some Vaseline, and two fingers… I think I got most of them back in.”

It was the night before Leo’s wedding, and the house was finally quiet. His father, Arthur, poured two generous glasses of aged scotch, handed one to his son, and gestured for him to sit in the leather armchair by the fireplace.
“Leo,” Arthur began, his voice carrying the hard-earned weight of thirty years of marriage. “Before you walk down that aisle tomorrow, I need to explain how the universe fundamentally shifts when you say ‘I do.’ It all comes down to the titles.”

Arthur took a slow sip and held up a finger. “When you get married, the family tree gets completely reorganized. You have a father? He instantly becomes a father-in-law.”

He held up a second finger. “You have a son? He becomes a son-in-law to his new bride’s family.”

A third finger. “You have a daughter? She becomes a daughter-in-law.”

He held up a fourth. “And you have a mother? She, inevitably, becomes a mother-in-law.”

Leo nodded, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, easily following the logical, linguistic pattern his father was laying out.

Arthur leaned forward, the firelight catching a sudden, deeply serious glint in his eye. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “But then, my boy… you have a wife. Tell me, what does she become?”

Leo frowned, his brow furrowing as his brain tried to apply the grammatical rule to the final piece of the puzzle.

“Well,” Leo reasoned, “I suppose she becomes a wife-in-law?”

Arthur let out a low, rumbling chuckle, shook his head slowly, and placed a heavy, reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder.

“No, son,” Arthur replied, his tone leaving absolutely zero room for argument. “She is the law.”

It was a packed, buzzing Friday night at O’Malley’s Pub, and every single stool at the bar was taken. Dave, a regular who had been coming to this exact spot every Friday for the past six years, had managed to claim his favourite corner seat right next to the jukebox. This was prime real estate, and he was not about to give it up for anyone.

About twenty minutes into his first pint, Dave felt the first, ominous rumble deep in his gut. He had made the fatal mistake of ordering the loaded nachos with extra jalapeños, and now his digestive system was staging a full-scale rebellion. He clenched his teeth, gripped his bar stool, and tried to will it away. But the pressure only built. And built. And built.

He glanced toward the restroom, but it was all the way across the crowded pub, through a sea of people, and worse, if he left his stool, that vulture Greg from down the street would absolutely swoop in and steal his spot. No. That was not happening. He had to hold his ground.

Then, inspiration struck. Dave had a brilliant, tactical idea. He casually reached into his pocket, pulled out his iPod, and slipped in his earbuds. He scrolled through his playlist and selected his favourite heavy metal track, the one with the thunderous, relentless bass drum. He cranked the volume all the way up to maximum.

The music was absolutely deafening. Perfect.

Dave waited for the first massive bass drop. BOOM. He timed his first release perfectly with the beat. Silent to the world, he thought, completely masked by the thunderous drums. A few seconds later, another heavy guitar riff kicked in. CRASH. He let the second one rip, perfectly synchronized. He was a maestro. A conductor of the most delicate and dangerous orchestra in the history of mankind.

For a full three minutes, Dave sat there in absolute bliss, completely relieved, his face a picture of pure, unadulterated serenity. He even gave a subtle, satisfied nod to the bartender.

Then, slowly, he opened his eyes and looked around.

Every single person in the bar was staring directly at him. The bartender had stopped pouring drinks. Two women at the next table had physically moved their chairs away. A man reading the newspaper had lowered it slowly, his face a mask of pure, unfiltered horror. The entire pub had fallen into a stunned, appalled silence.

Dave’s smile slowly faded. His heart began to race. He looked down at his chest.

The tiny, white wire ran from his shirt pocket… up to his ears.

He was listening to his iPod. Nobody else in the entire building could hear a single note of music.

Arthur was enjoying a quiet, peaceful Saturday morning when he looked out his bedroom window and nearly spilled his coffee. Sitting squarely in the middle of his shingled roof was a massive, fully grown, silverback gorilla.

Panicking, Arthur rushed to his phone book, flipped frantically through the yellow pages, and sure enough, right there under ‘G’ was an ad for “Gorilla Removers.” He dialed the number, and a gruff voice answered, promising to be at Arthur’s house in exactly thirty minutes.

True to his word, a beat-up white van pulled into the driveway half an hour later. The gorilla remover stepped out, and Arthur’s jaw practically hit the floor. The man was carrying a towering aluminum ladder, a heavy wooden baseball bat, a pump-action shotgun, and leading a massive, drooling, incredibly mean-looking pit bull on a heavy chain.

Arthur stared at the bizarre arsenal, completely bewildered. “Okay, buddy,” Arthur stammered. “What exactly are you going to do with all that?”

The remover didn’t even blink. He calmly set the gear down on the lawn and laid out his highly specific, step-by-step strategy.

“Well,” the remover explained casually, “first, I’m going to put this ladder up against the roof. Then, I’m going to climb up there and knock the gorilla off with this baseball bat. As soon as the gorilla falls to the ground, the pit bull is highly trained to immediately grab his testicles and not let go.”

Arthur watched in horrified fascination as the remover continued. “Once the dog has him locked down, the gorilla will be subdued enough for me to easily toss him into the cage in the back of the van.”

With the plan fully explained, the remover calmly picked up the pump-action shotgun, racked it with a loud *clack-clack*, and handed it to Arthur.

Arthur took the heavy weapon, his hands shaking slightly. He looked at the shotgun, then up at the remover, and asked, “Wait… what’s the shotgun for?”

The remover looked him dead in the eye and replied:
“If the gorilla knocks me off the roof, shoot the dog.”

Men should understand that as couples grow older, keeping up with work, household chores, and everyday responsibilities can become more tiring. When you notice this happening to your wife, the important thing is to remain patient, supportive, and—above all—tactful.

At least, that’s what Rob believed.

“My name is Rob, and I’d like to share how I’ve handled this delicate situation with my wife, Carol.

A few years ago, I retired. Unfortunately, we still needed additional income and health benefits, so Carol took a full-time job while continuing with some part-time work.

Not long after that, I began noticing that she didn’t seem to have quite as much energy as she used to.

For example, I normally arrive home from the golf club around the same time Carol gets home from work. Even though she knows I’ll be hungry, she often says she needs to sit down and rest for half an hour before preparing dinner.

Naturally, I don’t complain.

I simply tell her, ‘Take all the time you need, sweetheart. Just wake me up when dinner is ready.’

That’s the kind of supportive husband I am.

I usually eat lunch at the golf club, so by evening I’m looking forward to a proper home-cooked meal.

Carol used to clear the table and wash the dishes immediately after dinner. These days, however, the dishes sometimes remain there for hours.

Again, I don’t criticize her.

Instead, I gently remind her every so often that the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.

Apparently, my encouragement works because she usually manages to finish them before bedtime.

Then there’s the monthly paperwork.

Carol occasionally complains that it’s difficult to pay all the bills during her lunch break at work.

I tell her, ‘Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Spread them out over two or three lunch breaks.’

I even pointed out that skipping lunch occasionally might save her some time—and perhaps help her stay in shape.

I’ve always considered tact one of my greatest strengths.

I’ve also noticed that she takes more breaks while doing chores.

Just last weekend, she was only halfway through mowing the lawn when she stopped to rest.

Did I complain?

Of course not.

I’m a reasonable man.

I suggested that she go inside, make herself a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, put her feet up, and relax for a few minutes.

Then I added, ‘And sweetheart, since you’re already making one, could you bring me a glass too?’

I realize that by now I probably sound like an exceptionally patient husband.

But I’m not looking for praise.

Marriage is about supporting one another through life’s challenges. If just one husband reads my advice and learns to show his aging wife a little more patience, understanding, and tact, then writing this will have been worthwhile.

After all, we’re all here to help one another.”

Unfortunately, Rob’s marriage advice turned out to be his final publication.

Shortly after it appeared, Rob suffered a rather unusual and fatal encounter with his extra-long golf driver.

When investigators arrived, they found the golf club in a position that raised considerably more questions than answers.

A large hammer lying nearby raised a few more.

Carol was eventually arrested and the case went to trial.

Her defense maintained that Rob had somehow managed to accidentally sit on his own golf club.

After hearing the story, the jury returned with its verdict remarkably quickly:

**Not guilty.**

Apparently, they found Carol’s explanation far more believable than Rob’s claim that tact had always been one of his strongest qualities.