Daily Joke: Jokes Library

It had been one of those days—long enough to make John the truck driver consider switching careers to professional napping. All he wanted was to get home, inhale something deep-fried, and pass out in front of the TV.

But because he lived in Washington D.C., he knew exactly what was waiting for him at rush hour: traffic thick enough to spread on toast.

Sure enough, up ahead was a traffic jam so massive it looked like the cars were spawning. No alerts on the radio, no warnings—just an enormous, motionless mess. John stuck his head out the window and all he saw were brake lights and confused faces.

Nothing. Was. Moving.

Suddenly—knock knock knock!—a guy taps on his window. John rolls it down and asks, “Buddy, what in the world is going on out there?”

The guy sighs dramatically. “Terrorists have kidnapped the entire U.S. Congress!”

John’s eyes go wide. “Holy smokes!”

“They’re demanding a hundred million dollars.”

John winced. “Oh boy… that’s steep.”

“And if they don’t get it, they’re gonna soak ’em in gasoline and light ’em up like a Fourth of July barbecue.”

John gasped. “Good Lord!”

The man nodded. “We’re going car to car collecting donations.”

John, trying to be helpful, asked, “So… how much is everyone coughing up?”

The man shrugged. “On average… about a gallon.”

It had been one of those days. John, a weary truck driver, just wanted to crawl home, eat something fried, and fall asleep in front of the TV. But living in Washington D.C. meant only one thing at rush hour—traffic hell.

Sure enough, he slammed on the brakes as a traffic jam appeared ahead—a monster jam, bigger than his mother-in-law’s opinion of herself.

He hadn’t heard anything on the radio, so he leaned out the window, hoping for answers. All he saw were cars at a standstill, people pacing, and one guy eating Pringles like his life depended on it.

Then—knock knock!—a man tapped on his window.

“What’s going on?” John asked, already regretting it.

The guy said gravely, “Terrorists have kidnapped the entire U.S. Congress.”

John’s eyes went wide. “Holy cheeseballs!”

“They’re demanding a hundred million dollars in ransom,” the man continued.

John whistled. “That’s more than Congress spends on coffee!”

“If they don’t get it, they’re gonna douse ’em in gasoline and set them on fire.”

John blinked. “Mercy, that’s rough!”

The man nodded. “We’re going car to car, collecting donations.”

John frowned. “How much are people pitching in?”

The man shrugged. “About a gallon each.”

Mr. Johnson had been retired for about a year when his wife of 50 years said,

“Harold, let’s go on a cruise! Just the two of us… a week at sea, and we can make wild love like we did when we were young!”

Mr. Johnson thought this sounded pretty good. So he grabbed his hat, waddled down to the pharmacy, and bought himself a bottle of seasick pills and a box of condoms.

When he got home, his wife said, “You know, Harold… a week isn’t enough. Why not go for a month?”

So back he went to the pharmacy for 12 bottles of seasick pills and another box of condoms.

Then, as he walked in the door, his wife beamed and said, “You know, dear, the kids are grown, the house is paid off—why not cruise the world?”

Mr. Johnson sighed, turned around, and trudged back to the pharmacy. He slapped 297 bottles of seasick pills and 297 boxes of condoms on the counter.

The pharmacist, who’d known him for decades, stared at the mountain of supplies and finally said:

“Mr. Johnson… you’ve been a loyal customer for 30 years, so I don’t mean to pry, but—

if it makes you that sick… why the hell do you do it?”

There was a man who worked at the Post Office and handled all the mail with unreadable addresses.

One day, a letter arrived in shaky handwriting addressed simply to “God,” with no return address.

He decided to open it to see what it said.

The letter read: “Dear God, I’m an 83-year-old widow living on a very small pension. Yesterday, someone stole my purse. It had $100 in it—the only money I had until my next pension check. Next Sunday is Christmas, and I’d invited two friends over for dinner. Without that money, I can’t buy food. I have no family to turn to, and you’re my only hope. Please help me. Sincerely, Edna.”

The postal worker was deeply moved.

He showed the letter to his coworkers.

Each one reached into their wallet and pitched in a few dollars.

By the time he’d gone around, he’d collected $96, which they put in an envelope and sent to Edna.

For the rest of the day, the staff felt a warm glow, imagining Edna enjoying a lovely dinner with her friends.

Christmas came and went.

A few days later, another letter arrived from the same woman—again addressed to God.

All the workers gathered around as it was opened.

It read: “Dear God, how can I ever thank you enough? Because of your generous gift, I was able to prepare a wonderful dinner for my friends. We had a lovely day, and I told them all about your kindness.

“By the way, $4 was missing. I’m sure it was those thieves at the Post Office!”

On a pitch-black night in Dublin, chaos erupted when a fire broke out at the local chemical plant. Before anyone could say “flammable,” the whole place went kaboom transforming into a giant bonfire with a PhD in destruction.

The alarm wailed like a banshee with indigestion, summoning every fire department within a 50-mile radius. When the first crews arrived, the panicked plant president sprinted over to the fire chief, eyes wide as dinner plates, and gasped:

“Our vault’s full of top-secret formulas worth more than my ex-wife’s lawyer! Save ’em, and I’ll toss you £50,000!”

But the flames weren’t having it. They roared like a drunk dragon at a karaoke night, keeping even the bravest firefighters at bay. Desperate, the president upped the ante: “Make it £100,000!”

Still nothing. Fire trucks lined up like fancy cars at a funeral, all shiny and useless.

Then, from the foggy distance, came a sound no one expected: the wheezing siren of a rusty, rattling fire engine that looked like it lost the war against rust in 1973. It was the volunteer crew from Ballyknacker-on-the-Bog a team of pensioners whose average age was “old enough to remember when fire was invented.”

To everyone’s shock, this ancient jalopy didn’t just pull up it barreled straight through the inferno like it had a grudge against fire and a death wish for suspension systems.

Out tumbled a squad of grey-haired heroes some leaning on walking sticks, others muttering about their hip replacements and they went to work like their bingo night depended on it. In minutes, they’d wrestled the blaze into submission and marched out with the vault intact, formulas safer than a secret recipe for Irish stew.

The president, nearly weeping, doubled the reward to £200,000 and hugged each of them like they were saints who’d just blessed his bank account.

A local news crew rushed over and stuck a mic in the face of Paddy O’Flannigan, the 70-year-old fire chief with eyebrows like storm clouds and the energy of a man who’d skipped his afternoon nap for this.

“Chief!” the reporter asked breathlessly, “What will you do with all that money?”

Paddy squinted, spat neatly to the side (missing his shoe by sheer luck), and deadpanned:

First order of business? Fix the bloody brakes on that fire engine. We didn’t drive through the fire we couldn’t stop!”