Daily Joke: Jokes Library

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!”

It was a bright, cheerful Sunday morning, and the smell of bacon and fresh coffee filled the house. George burst through the kitchen door, practically vibrating with excitement. “Dad! Mom! I have the most incredible news!” he announced, a massive grin spreading across his face. “I’m getting married! She’s the most beautiful, wonderful girl in town. She lives just a block away, and her name is Susan!”

His parents smiled, offered their congratulations, and the family sat down to a lovely celebratory breakfast. But later that afternoon, as George was helping clear the table, his father gently tapped him on the shoulder. “Son, come into the study for a moment. We need to have a man-to-man talk.”

Once the heavy oak door was closed, his father sighed heavily, pouring himself a small glass of scotch. He looked down at his shoes, unable to meet his son’s eyes. “George, look at your mother out there. She and I have been married for thirty years. She is a wonderful wife and a fantastic mother, but… well, she has never offered much excitement in the bedroom. So, over the years, I used to fool around with other women quite a bit.”

George stared at him, completely stunned. His father continued, his voice dropping to a guilty whisper. “Susan…

Susan is actually your half-sister, George. I’m afraid you simply can’t marry her.”

George was absolutely devastated. It took him eight long, painful months to recover from the heartbreak, but eventually, he healed and started dating again.

A year later, he came home with a renewed spring in his step and proudly announced, “Diane said yes! We’re getting married in June!”

Once again, his father insisted on a private conversation in the study. Once again came the heavy sigh, the poured scotch, and the devastating confession. “Diane is your half-sister too, George. I am awfully, truly sorry about this.”

George was absolutely livid. He was exhausted, furious, and utterly defeated. Deciding he had heard enough of his father’s “truth bombs,” he marched straight into the kitchen where his mother was calmly sipping her tea and doing the Sunday crossword puzzle.

“Mom, Dad has done so much harm!” George complained, throwing his hands in the air in sheer frustration. “I guess

I’m just never going to get married. Every single time I fall in love, Dad tells me the girl is my half-sister!”

His mother slowly lowered her pen, looked him dead in the eye, and let out a soft, knowing chuckle.

“Oh, honey, don’t pay any attention to what he says,” she said, shaking her head with a warm, reassuring smile. “He’s not really your father.”

The smell of roasting lamb and root vegetables filled the cozy McCarthy kitchen on a dreary Tuesday evening. Brenda was just setting the table for two, humming a quiet tune, when a heavy, hesitant knock echoed from the front door.

She wiped her hands on her apron and opened it to find Tim Finnegan standing on the porch. He was soaked from the Dublin drizzle, twisting his tweed flat cap in his hands, and looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

“May I come in, Brenda darlin’?” Tim asked, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I’ve somethin’ terrible to tell ya.”

Brenda’s heart skipped a beat. She stepped aside, her eyes darting to the empty hallway behind him. “Of course, Tim, come in out of the rain. But… where’s Patrick? He’s usually home by now.”

Tim stepped into the kitchen, refusing to take off his damp coat. He stared at the floorboards. “That’s what I’m here to be tellin’ ya, Brenda. There was a terrible accident down at the Guinness Brewery this afternoon.”

Brenda gasped, clutching her chest. “Oh, God NO!” she cried, tears instantly welling in her eyes. “Please, Tim, don’t tell me…..”

“I’m so sorry, darlin’,” Tim said, his voice breaking as he reached out to steady her. “Your dear husband Patrick is dead.”

Brenda collapsed into a kitchen chair, burying her face in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. After a few moments, she looked up through her tears, desperate for some small comfort. “How did it happen, Tim? Please, tell me true… did he at least die quickly? Did he suffer?”

Tim shifted his weight uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated, looking everywhere but at her.

“Well… no, darlin’. Not really, no.”

Brenda’s eyes widened in fresh horror. “NO? He suffered?”

Tim sighed, shaking his head slowly. “No, Brenda. It’s just that he climbed out of the vat three times to pee.”