Daily Joke: Jokes Library

A blind man loved exploring new places, so one day he decided to check out Texas. When he arrived at his hotel, he felt around the bed and said, “Good grief… this thing is massive!”

The bellhop grinned. “Welcome to Texas, sir. EVERYTHING is bigger here!”

Later, the man went down to the bar, climbed onto a barstool the size of a small mountain, and ordered a beer.

The bartender placed a mug in his hands. “Holy smokes, this thing is huge!”

The bartender chuckled. “Sir, EVERYTHING is big in Texas!”

After a few oversized drinks, the blind man asked where the bathroom was.

“Second door on the right,” the bartender said.

Unfortunately, the blind man wandered through the third door instead—straight into the swimming pool. He popped up thrashing and yelling at the top of his lungs:

“Don’t flush! DON’T FLUSH!!!”

A fifteen-year-old Amish boy and his father took their very first trip to the city. They wandered around wide-eyed, amazed by everything—cars honking, neon signs flashing, people rushing like their pants were on fire.

Eventually, they walked into a shopping mall, and that’s when they spotted something truly magical: two shiny silver walls that slid apart and then came back together.

“Father, what is that?” the boy asked.

His dad squinted and said, “Son, I’ve lived a long time, but I ain’t got a clue what that contraption is.”

As they stared in awe, an elderly, heavyset woman rolled up in her wheelchair, pressed a button, and disappeared between the silver walls into a tiny room. The walls slid shut and numbers above it began lighting up one by one.

They watched the numbers climb to the top… then come back down again.

When the doors finally opened, out stepped a stunning 24-year-old blonde—like the machine had just performed a miracle makeover.

The father, eyes wide and glued to the woman, leaned down to his son and whispered…

“Junior… go fetch your mother.”

Once upon a time, the mighty Emperor of the Rising Sun announced he was hiring a new Chief Samurai. After an entire year, only three warriors applied: one Japanese, one Chinese, and one Jewish samurai.

“Show me what you can do!” the Emperor demanded.

The Japanese samurai stepped forward, opened a tiny box, and released a fly. In one lightning-fast motion—SWISH!—his sword sliced the fly cleanly in half.

“Incredible!” the Emperor exclaimed. “Samurai Number Two, your turn.”

The Chinese samurai grinned, opened his own small box, and released another fly. His blade flashed twice—SWISH! SWISH!—and the fly dropped to the ground neatly cut into four perfect pieces.

“Remarkable skill,” the Emperor said. “Now, Samurai Number Three… impress me.”

The Jewish samurai, Yoku Cohen, walked forward, opened his tiny box, and let a fly loose. He raised his sword and with a dramatic SWOOSH! made a powerful swing. The fly, however, kept buzzing happily around the room.

The Emperor frowned. “What kind of display was that? The fly is still alive!”

Cohen shrugged. “Alive? Of course it’s alive. Killing it is easy. But trust me—after what I just did? That fly is definitely circumcised. Now that is true skill.”

A man summoned to testify before the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) sought advice on what to wear. He first asked his accountant, who said,
“Wear your shabbiest clothes make them think you’re broke.”

Unsure, he then asked his lawyer, who gave the exact opposite counsel:
“Don’t let them push you around. Show up in your sharpest suit and tie.”

Completely confused, he turned to his priest for guidance, explaining the conflicting advice. The priest smiled and said,
“Let me tell you a story.”

“A young woman about to be married asked her mother what to wear on her wedding night. Her mother advised, ‘Wear a thick, high-necked flannel nightgown modest and warm.’ But when she asked her best friend, she was told, ‘Wear your sexiest, lowest-cut negligee—you want to make an impression!’”

The man threw up his hands. “But what does that have to do with my IRS problem?”

The priest replied calmly,
“Simple. No matter what you wear you’re going to get screwed.”

A guy strolls out onto the sidewalk, snaps his fingers like he’s summoning a genie, and—bam!—a taxi screeches to a halt right in front of him.

He hops in, and the cabbie grins. “Now that’s timing! You’re just like Frank.”

Passenger: “Frank who?”

Cabbie: “Frank Feldman. Legendary cabbie. The human GPS with a halo. If you needed a cab, Frank was already double-parked outside your therapist’s office. Rain or shine, rush hour or zombie apocalypse—he’d be there, AC on, mints full, rearview mirror spotless.”

Passenger (rolling his eyes): “Sounds like he walked on water… in loafers.”

Cabbie: “Better! Frank could hit a tennis ace, sink a hole-in-one, and then serenade the ball with a flawless rendition of Nessun Dorma. Afterward, he’d tango with your grandma—and she’d thank him for it.”

Passenger: “Okay, okay, but nobody’s perfect.”

Cabbie: “Frank was! He remembered your third cousin’s hamster’s birthday. Knew whether to pair your existential dread with a Pinot Noir or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. And forget IKEA instructions—Frank could assemble your entire life with a single Allen key and a smile.”

Passenger: “What about you?”

Cabbie (sighs): “I once tried to replace a lightbulb and tripped the grid for three suburbs. Meanwhile, Frank? He’d defuse a bomb while giving relationship advice to a squirrel.”

Passenger: “Dang. So… how’d you two meet?”

Cabbie, eyes twinkling: “Oh, I never actually met Frank. But I did marry his widow. And let me tell you—it’s been one long performance review ever since.”