Daily Joke: Jokes Library

St. Peter and Satan were having one of their regular, highly competitive cosmic debates, which had somehow devolved into a fierce, passionate argument about baseball. Satan, never one to back down from a challenge, slammed his hand on the celestial table and proposed a high-stakes exhibition game to be played on neutral grounds between a select team from the heavenly host and his own hand-picked boys from down below.

St. Peter adjusted his halo, leaned back in his cloud, and chuckled with absolute, divine confidence. “Very well,” the gatekeeper of Heaven said, a smug, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. “But you realize, I hope, that we’ve got all the good players. We’ve got the archangels with perfect pitching arms, the saints with golden bats, and the absolute best coaches in the universe. It won’t even be a contest.”

Satan didn’t flinch. He didn’t look worried in the slightest. In fact, he just casually adjusted his tie, returned the smile with a wicked, knowing grin, and replied completely unperturbed:

“I know, and that’s all right. We’ve got all the umpires.”

It was the peak of the holiday season, and the line at the Pearly Gates was moving at a brisk, festive pace. Saint Peter, feeling particularly generous and in the Christmas spirit, decided to add a little seasonal flair to the standard admission process.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Saint Peter announced, adjusting his spectacles. “In honor of this holy season, I have a special requirement. To gain entry into Heaven today, each of you must produce an item from your pockets that symbolizes Christmas.”

The first man, a bit nervous but eager, fumbled through his coat pockets. He pulled out a standard, silver Bic lighter. He flicked it on, producing a small, steady flame. “It represents a candle,” he explained hopefully.

Saint Peter smiled warmly. “A light in the darkness. Very good. You may pass through the Pearly Gates.”

The second man stepped forward, digging deep into his trousers. He pulled out a heavy, jangling set of house and car keys. He gave them a vigorous shake, producing a loud, metallic jingle. “They’re bells,” he declared with a confident nod.

Saint Peter chuckled. “Jingle all the way. Excellent. You may also pass through the Pearly Gates.”

Then came the third man. He began patting down his pockets with increasing desperation. He checked his jacket, his trousers, and even his socks, his face growing pale with panic. Finally, with a look of sheer defeat, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lacy, bright red pair of women’s panties.

Saint Peter stopped. He lowered his ledger, raised a single, highly skeptical eyebrow, and stared at the man in utter bewilderment. “I must ask,” the saint said, his voice dripping with divine confusion, “and just what on earth do those symbolize?”

The man looked the panties dead in the eye, looked back up at Saint Peter, and replied with absolute, deadpan sincerity:

“They’re Carols.”

A woman was scanning the guests at a party when she spotted an attractive man standing by himself. She decided to walk over and introduce herself.

“My name is Carmen,” she said with a smile.

“That’s a beautiful name,” the man replied. “Is it a family name?”

“No,” she said. “I actually chose it myself. It represents two of my favorite things in life—cars and men. Put them together and you get Car-men.”

She smiled proudly at her clever explanation.

Then she leaned a little closer and asked, “So, what’s your name?”

The man paused for a moment, thought about his own favorite things, and grinned.

“Nice to meet you, Carmen. My name is B.J. Titsenbeer.”

Arthur Johnson, a hardworking businessman from chilly Wisconsin, had just landed in the humid, sweltering heat of Louisiana for a week-long corporate trip. Eager to reassure his wife, Jennifer, he sat down at the hotel desk and quickly typed out an email to let her know he’d made it safely. Unfortunately, in his haste, he missed a single letter in her email address. Instead of going to Jennifer, the message instantly pinged into the inbox of a Mrs. Joan Johnson.

Joan was the grieving widow of a beloved local preacher who had tragically passed away and been laid to rest just that very morning. Seeking a brief, quiet distraction from her sorrow, she opened her laptop and saw the new message notification. She clicked it open, and her blood instantly ran cold.

The email read:
“Dearest, I’ve arrived safely. The flight was fine, but it sure is blazing hot down here. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love, your husband.”

Joan took one look at the screen, let out a piercing shriek, and promptly fainted dead away onto the living room rug.

Her sister and a neighbor rushed in, fanning her face and splashing cool water on her forehead until she finally fluttered her eyes open. Still trembling, pale as a ghost, and utterly convinced of the supernatural, she weakly raised a shaking finger and pointed directly at the glowing computer screen.

It was a crisp Tuesday afternoon, and Arthur was strolling down the high street, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

Suddenly, he was approached by a particularly disheveled, shabby-looking man who looked like he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a decade.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man rasped, holding out a trembling hand. “Could you spare a couple of dollars for some dinner?”

Arthur paused, reached into his leather wallet, and extracted a crisp ten-dollar bill. But instead of handing it over, he narrowed his eyes and began a highly specific interrogation.

“If I give you this money,” Arthur asked slowly, “will you buy some beer with it instead of dinner?”

“No, sir,” the man replied earnestly. “I had to stop drinking years ago.”

“Will you use it to gamble instead of buying food?” Arthur pressed.

“No, I don’t gamble,” the man said, shaking his head. “I need every single penny I can get just to stay alive.”

“Will you spend this on greens fees at a golf course instead of food?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you NUTS?!” the man exclaimed, genuinely offended. “I haven’t played golf in twenty years!”

“Will you spend the money on a woman in the red-light district instead of food?” Arthur asked, leaning in slightly.

“What disease would I possibly get for ten lousy bucks?!” the man shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Arthur smiled warmly, folded the ten-dollar bill, and put it back in his pocket. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “I’m not going to give you the money. Instead, I’m going to take you home with me for a terrific, home-cooked dinner prepared by my wife.”

The shabby man was absolutely astounded. He took a step back, looking down at his torn clothes. “Won’t your wife be furious with you for bringing me home? I know I’m dirty, and I probably smell pretty disgusting.”

Arthur placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, his smile never wavering, and replied:

“That’s perfectly okay. It’s incredibly important for her to see exactly what a man looks like after he has given up beer, gambling, golf, and sex.”