Daily Joke: Jokes Library

A quiet, easygoing man had spent years being pushed around and talked over at home. Eventually, he reached a breaking point and decided something had to change. Determined to reclaim a bit of confidence, he booked an appointment with a psychiatrist.

After listening to his situation, the psychiatrist told him that his main problem was low self-esteem. He explained that the man needed to learn how to be more assertive and stand up for himself. To help him get started, he handed him a book on assertiveness and encouraged him to read it right away.

Taking the advice seriously, the man opened the book on his way home and became completely absorbed in it. By the time he reached his house, he had finished the entire thing and was feeling newly empowered, filled with confidence he had never felt before.

Fueled by this sudden burst of courage, he marched straight into the house, shoulders back and chest out, ready to take control. He walked right up to his wife, pointed his finger firmly, and declared in a loud, commanding voice:

“From now on, things are going to change around here. I want you to understand that I am the man of this house, and my word is law! Tonight, I expect you to prepare me a full gourmet meal. And after I’ve finished eating, I want a rich, delicious dessert waiting for me.”

He didn’t stop there.

“Then, after dinner, you’re going to draw me a nice hot bath so I can relax properly. And when I’m done with my bath,” he continued confidently, “you’re going to dress me and comb my hair.”

His wife looked at him calmly, barely missing a beat.

“The funeral director,” she replied.

It was a quiet Tuesday night at “The Rusty Anchor,” a dimly lit pub on the edge of town. The neon sign buzzed softly outside, casting a red glow on the wet pavement. Inside, the bartender, Mike, was wiping down the counter, enjoying the lull between the early evening rush and the late-night crowd.

Suddenly, the front door swung open. A man stumbled in, his tie loosened, hair disheveled, and the distinct scent of cheap whiskey trailing behind him like a fog. He was obviously drunk. He staggered toward the bar, barely missing a cocktail table, and hoisted himself onto a stool with a clumsy thud.
With a loud belch that echoed off the wooden beams, he slurred, “Gimme… gimme a drink. Whatever’s strong.”

Mike paused, cloth in hand, and looked the man up and down with professional patience. “Sir,” he said politely, “it appears you’ve already had plenty to drink tonight. I can’t serve you any additional liquor at this bar. It’s against the law, and against my better judgment.

Can I call you a cab instead?” The drunk blinked, seemingly surprised by the refusal. He scoffed softly, muttered something under his breath about “lousy service,” and slid off the stool. He wobbled toward the front door and stumbled out into the night.

Mike shook his head, went back to wiping the counter, and thought that was the end of it.Five minutes later, the side door creaked open. The same man stumbled in, looking even more confused than before. He wobbly-walked up to the bar, gripping the edge for support, and hollered, “Hey! Barkeep! I need a drink!”

Mike sighed, walked over, and stood his ground. Still polite, but firmer this time, he said, “Look, friend, I just told you. You’re intoxicated. I cannot serve you. I’m not trying to be rude, but you’ve had enough. Let me call you a cab, okay?”

The drunk stared at Mike for a long moment, anger flashing in his bloodshot eyes. He cursed under his breath, shook his head in disbelief, and turned around. He shoved open the side door and marched out, grumbling loudly about “stubborn bartenders.”

Mike locked the side door after him. “That’s it,” he muttered. “No more.”
But fate, and alcohol, had other plans.

A few minutes later, the back kitchen door burst open. The same drunk man marched in, looking determined. He navigated through the kitchen, past the confused cook, and plopped himself onto a bar stool right in front of Mike. He gathered his wits, slapped the counter, and belligerently ordered, “Alright, buddy. No more games. Give me a drink. Now.”

Mike slammed his rag down. He leaned over the counter, his voice emphatic and final. “Listen to me! You are clearly drunk. You have been refused service twice already. You will be served NO drinks here. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling a cab… or the police. Which one do you prefer?”
The drunk man froze. He looked at Mike. He looked at the familiar bottles behind the bar. He looked at the same stool he’d been sitting on twice before.

His face crumpled into an expression of hopeless anguish and genuine confusion.
He threw his hands up in the air and cried, “Man! How many bars do you work at?!”

After years of sticking with the same family practice, I finally decided to switch to a new primary care physician—Dr. Mitchell, a highly recommended internist with a reputation for being thorough, direct, and just a little bit sassy.

After two comprehensive visits, a full panel of exhaustive lab tests, a stress test, a bone density scan, and what felt like a personal interview with my lifestyle choices, Dr. Mitchell closed my file, removed his reading glasses, and looked at me with a measured expression.

“Well,” he said, tapping his pen against the chart, “overall, you’re doing… fairly well… for your age.”

Fairly well? Those four words echoed in my mind like a ominous weather forecast. I shifted in my seat, suddenly hyper-aware of every minor ache I’d been ignoring for years.

A little concerned—and maybe just a touch dramatic—I leaned forward and asked the question that had been nagging at the back of my brain: “Doctor… be honest with me. Do you think I’ll live to be 80?”

Dr. Mitchell paused. He steepled his fingers, gave me a long, thoughtful look—the kind that makes you wonder if you have a secret twin or a hidden allergy to oxygen—and then began his interrogation.

“First question,” he said calmly. “Do you smoke tobacco? Or drink beer, wine, spirits… anything with a buzz?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I replied, sitting up a little straighter, proud of my choices. “I’ve never smoked a day in my life, and I don’t touch alcohol. Never have.”

He nodded, making a small checkmark on his notepad. “Understood. Next: Do you eat rib-eye steaks, barbecued ribs, bacon, burgers… any of that red meat everyone warns about?”

“Nope!” I said, almost cheerfully. “I’ve heard red meat is inflammatory, linked to heart disease, bad for cholesterol—I stick to grilled chicken, fish, and lots of kale. Very healthy.”

Another nod. Another checkmark.

He leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you spend a lot of time in the sun? You know—playing golf, sailing, ballooning, rock climbing, beach volleyball… anything that involves UV exposure and potential skin damage?”

“No, sir,” I said, shaking my head. “I wear sunscreen daily, I avoid peak sun hours, and my idea of adventure is a brisk walk in the shade.”

Dr. Mitchell was silent for a beat. Then he asked, voice low and deliberate: “Do you gamble? Drive fast cars? Engage in risky behaviors? Or… sexually fool around?”

I blinked. “No! I’ve never done any of those things. I’m basically a homebody who pays bills on time and watches documentaries about birds.”

The room went quiet. The clock on the wall ticked. A distant phone rang in the hallway.

Dr. Mitchell slowly closed my file, placed it neatly on the edge of his desk, and looked me dead in the eye with the gentle, devastating wisdom of a man who’s heard it all.

“Then… why do you care if you live to be 80?”

A frantic young woman burst into the examination room, her face flushed with distress. She practically collapsed onto the stool, clutching her arms as if protecting herself from an invisible attack.

Dr. Evans looked up from his clipboard, concerned. “Good morning. What seems to be the trouble today?”

“You have to help me, Doctor!” she wailed, tears welling in her eyes. “I hurt all over! It’s unbearable!”

Dr. Evans frowned, leaning forward with a professional demeanor. “All over? That’s quite vague. Can you be a little more specific? Where exactly is the pain located?”

The woman shook her head vigorously. “No, you don’t understand! It’s everywhere!”

To demonstrate, she extended her hand and pressed her index finger firmly against her right knee. Immediately, she recoiled. “Ow! See? That hurts!”

Dr. Evans raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Then, she moved her hand up and poked her left cheek. Again, she shrieked, “Ouch! That hurts, too!”

The doctor watched silently, his mind racing through potential neurological conditions.

Finally, she touched her right earlobe with the same finger. “Ow! Even THAT hurts!” she cried, sobbing now. “I told you! It’s my whole body!”

Dr. Evans checked her thoughtfully for a moment, watching her clutch her hand. A slow smile spread across his face as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. He leaned back in his chair and delivered his diagnosis with calm confidence.

“You don’t have a systemic disease, ma’am. You have a broken finger.”

Dr. Patterson adjusted his glasses and sighed deeply as he shuffled through the manila folder on his desk. The fluorescent lights of the examination room hummed quietly as his patient, Mr. Henderson, sat nervously on the crinkly paper-covered table, tapping his foot with anticipation.

“Mr. Henderson,” the doctor began, his voice measured and serious, “I’m afraid I have some bad news… and some very bad news.”
Mr. Henderson’s face paled slightly. He swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the examination table. “Well, Doc,” he said, trying to sound brave, “might as well rip the band-aid off. Give me the bad news first. I can handle it.”

Dr. Patterson nodded respectfully, leaning forward with his hands clasped. “The lab called this morning with your comprehensive test results. After reviewing all the markers, the specialists, and the imaging… I’m so sorry to tell you this, but the prognosis is extremely serious. Based on the progression we’re seeing, you have approximately 24 hours to live.”

The room fell silent. Mr. Henderson’s eyes widened in shock. He shot up from the table, his voice cracking with panic. “TWENTY-FOUR HOURS?! That’s… that’s impossible! That’s TERRIBLE! I just booked a golf trip for next month! My daughter’s graduating in the spring! HOW could anything possibly be WORSE than that? Doc, what in the world could be the VERY bad news?!”

Dr. Patterson paused, looked down at his phone, then back at the frantic patient, and said gently…
“I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”