Daily Joke: Jokes Library

One afternoon, a woman came home early from work and caught her husband in bed with a stunning young woman.

Furious, she screamed:
“You cheating, two-timing slug! How could you?! I’ve been loyal, I’ve raised your kids, I’ve put up with your snoring—and now THIS?! I want a divorce. TODAY.”

Her husband held up a hand.
“Hang on, sweetheart—just let me explain.”

She crossed her arms. “Fine. These are your last words. Make ‘em good.”

He cleared his throat dramatically:
“Okay, so… after work today, I got in the car, and this poor woman flagged me down for a ride. She was skin-and-bones, covered in mud, and said she hadn’t eaten in three days.”

“My heart broke! So I brought her here—figured I’d feed her before dropping her off. Gave her that plate of goulash I made you last night—the one you refused because you were ‘watching your figure.’ She scarfed it down like it was Michelin-starred.”

“Then I let her shower. While she was cleaning up, I saw her clothes were basically compost. So I tossed ‘em. Figured she needed something decent—so I gave her those jeans you haven’t worn since 2019 because they ‘squeeze your thighs.’”

“Then I grabbed the lacy underwear I bought you that you said made you ‘look like a rejected burlesque act.’”

“Oh! And that hideous Christmas sweater from my mom—the one you swore you’d never wear just to ‘teach her a lesson’? Yeah, she got that too.”

“Even tossed in those designer heels you wore once and then complained about because ‘Janice from accounting had the same pair.’”

He paused for effect… then leaned in with a grin:
“And as I walked her to the door, she turned to me—eyes glistening—and whispered…”

“‘You’re such a kind soul… Is there anything else your wife doesn’t use?’”

A soda salesman staggers back from Saudi Arabia, looking like he just chugged a warm can of regret.

His buddy spots him and says, “Whoa—why the long face? Did your Coke go flat… or did you?”

The salesman sighs: “My whole campaign bombed harder than a dropped soda can in a silent library.”

“What?! But I heard you had a killer pitch!”

“Oh, I did!” he groans. “Since I don’t speak Arabic, I went full silent-movie genius. I designed three posters to tell the story:

Poster 1: Guy chugging the new Coke—alive, energized, practically doing backflips.
Poster 2: Same guy enjoying a refreshing sip.
Poster 3: Him flat on his back in the desert, totally passed out from dehydration.

I plastered those bad boys everywhere. You couldn’t sneeze in Riyadh without seeing my ads!”

His friend blinks. “Wait… that sounds amazing! What went wrong?”

The salesman slumps further.
“Turns out… they read from right to left. So the story they saw was:
‘Drink this magical soda… feel okay for a sec… then collapse and die in the desert.’”

His friend winces. “Yikes. So instead of selling refreshment… you sold a public health warning?”

“Pretty much,” the salesman mutters. “Now the Ministry of Health wants to ban my ‘energy drink’… and I think I’m on an Interpol watchlist.”

A guy shuffles up to the Pearly Gates, looking hopeful—only to find a celestial bouncer in a halo and wings giving him the once-over.

“Welcome,” says the angel, clipboard in hand. “Heaven’s not exactly a walk-in situation. We’ve got standards.”

“Were you religious?”
“Nah.”
“…That’s not great.”

“Generous? Donated to charity? Dropped a quid in a tin?”
“Not really.”
“Also… not great.”

“Any good deeds? Held a door? Let someone merge in traffic? Anything?”
“Uh… nope.”

The angel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mate, everyone does one decent thing. Think! I’m literally trying to get you in here!”

The man scratches his head. “Well… there was this one time. I walked out of Tesco, and this sweet old lady was getting mobbed by a gang of Hell’s Angels—leather, tattoos, the whole ‘I-break-spines-for-breakfast’ vibe. They’d snatched her handbag and were shoving her around like she owed them rent.

I saw red. Dropped my shopping, charged in like a caffeinated badger, wrestled her purse back, helped her up—and then I marched right up to the biggest, scariest biker, called him a spineless wanker, and spat right in his face!”

The angel’s eyes widen. “Blimey! That’s actually… wow. Heroic! When did this happen?”

The man shrugs. “’Bout ten minutes ago.”

The angel blinks. “…So… you’re not dead yet?”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere below: “OI! YOU DROPPED YOUR KEYS!”

A sleek, black limo rolled up to a red light and idled like it owned the road which, given its price tag, it practically did. Moments later, a humble Mini Cooper sputtered in beside it, looking like it had just survived a round of musical chairs with garden gnomes.

From the back of the limo, a businessman in a suit so expensive it probably had its own passport leaned out the window. “Behold!” he announced, as if unveiling the eighth wonder of the world. “This isn’t just a car it’s a rolling palace! ABS brakes, airbags for everyone (even the invisible emotional support corgi), climate control that reads your mood, a satellite TV embedded in the ceiling, photochromatic glass that tans for you, a mini-bar stocked with artisanal disappointment, and an onboard computer so smart it files my taxes and judges my life choices!”

The Mini driver blinked. “Cool. But… does it have a video screen?”

The light turned green. The limo glided away in dignified silence except for the businessman’s ego, which was quietly sobbing in the back seat.

Mortified by this glaring omission (how would he ever watch The Great British Bake Off in traffic again?), he stormed into the dealership that very afternoon and demanded a state-of-the-art video screen installed gold-plated remote included.

A few days later, fate (or terrible city planning) brought them together again at the same traffic light. This time, the Mini was parked on the curb, windows fogged up like it was hosting a sauna party, with steam curling out of a cracked window.

The businessman couldn’t resist. He leapt from his limo, strode over, and rapped sharply on the Mini’s window.

After a long pause, the window slid down just enough to reveal a very damp, very annoyed Mini driver wrapped in a towel, shampoo still in his hair.

“I got a DVD player!” the businessman declared triumphantly.

The Mini driver stared. Then groaned.
“Dude… you pulled me out of the shower… for that?!”

And with that, he rolled up the window, cranked the hot water back on, and left the limo and its very confused owner steaming in more ways than one.

At one point during a hockey game, the coach pulled aside one of his 7-year-old players and got down to business.

“Alright, champ,” the coach began, “do you know what cooperation means? Like, do you understand this whole ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ thing?”

The kid gave an enthusiastic nod, looking like he was ready to accept a Nobel Prize for wisdom.

“Great!” said the coach. “And you get that winning isn’t everything, right? It’s about playing together, having fun, and not turning into a bunch of angry penguins out there.”

Another eager nod from the little philosopher on skates.

“Okay, so when the ref calls a penalty,” the coach went on, “you’re NOT supposed to throw a tantrum, scream like a banshee, or shout creative insults at him—like calling him a ‘refrigerator head’ or something equally ridiculous.”

The boy nodded again, clearly soaking up all this life-changing advice.

“Also,” the coach added, leaning in dramatically, “when I bench you so someone else can play, it’s probably not cool to call me a ‘glazed donut’ under your breath. Got it?”

Nod number three. This kid was nailing the art of silent agreement.

“Perfect!” said the coach, patting him on the shoulder. “Now go explain all this to your mom because she’s currently yelling at the ref, calling ME names, and threatening to chuck her coffee cup onto the ice.”