Daily Joke: Jokes Library

Brenda had always struggled with her weight, and after her annual physical, her doctor sat her down with a serious expression. “Brenda,” he said gently, “we need to do something about this. I’m putting you on a very specific diet plan.”

He handed her a printed sheet of instructions. “Here’s what I want you to do: eat regularly for two days, then skip a day. Repeat this cycle for two full weeks. When you come back to see me, you’ll have lost at least five pounds.”

Brenda nodded solemnly, took the paper, and marched out of the office with fierce determination. She was going to do this. No matter what.

The first two days were easy enough. She ate her normal portions, feeling good about her commitment. Then came day three—the first “skip” day.

Brenda woke up early, laced up her sneakers, and spent the entire day hopping, bouncing, and skipping around her house like a joyful child at a playground. She skipped while making coffee. She skipped while watching TV. She skipped around the garden. By the end of the day, she was absolutely exhausted, drenched in sweat, and her legs were screaming in protest.

But she was committed. She repeated the cycle: two days of normal eating, one day of non-stop skipping. She skipped through week one.

She skipped through week two. Her calves were burning, her knees were aching, but she refused to quit.

When Brenda returned to the doctor’s office two weeks later, the nurse weighed her and the numbers made everyone’s eyes widen. She had lost nearly 20 pounds.

The doctor was absolutely astounded. He stared at the scale, then at Brenda, completely bewildered. “Why, that’s amazing!” he exclaimed.

“Brenda, did you follow my instructions exactly?”

Brenda nodded proudly, wiping her brow. “I sure did, Doctor. But I’ll tell you, I thought I was going to drop dead that third day.”

The doctor frowned, concerned. “From hunger, you mean?”

Brenda shook her head, rubbing her sore legs.

“No, from skipping.”

The Miller family was enjoying a beautiful, sun-drenched summer holiday, driving down a winding, scenic country road in their loaded station wagon. Arthur was at the wheel, his wife Martha was navigating, and their beloved family dog, Buster, was snoring loudly in the back seat.

Suddenly, a small green frog hopped directly into the middle of the road. Arthur slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a gentle halt.

Being a kind-hearted man, he unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped out into the warm sunshine, and gently scooped the little amphibian up in his hands, carrying it safely to the grassy verge.

The frog landed softly, looked up at Arthur with large, intelligent eyes, and to Arthur’s absolute astonishment, spoke in a clear, polite voice:

“Thank you, kind sir, for saving my life. As a token of my gratitude, I am a magical frog, and I will grant you one wish.”

Arthur’s mind raced. He thought of lottery numbers, but then he remembered Buster, his loyal but unfortunately unathletic dog. “Well,”

Arthur said, “I’ve always wanted to be a winner. Please, make my dog win the next big dog race in town.”

The frog nodded solemnly. “Bring the dog to me so I may assess the situation.”

Arthur opened the back door, and Buster limped out. The frog took one look at the animal. Buster was massively overweight, panting heavily, missing his back left leg from a childhood accident, and could barely waddle three steps without needing a nap.

The frog sighed, shaking his little green head. “My friend, I am very powerful, but I am not a miracle worker. This dog is three-legged, severely overweight, and moves at the speed of a resting tortoise. Winning a race is simply impossible. Please, I beg of you, choose another wish.”

Arthur thought for a moment, then looked over at Martha, who was reapplying her lipstick in the rearview mirror. He smiled. “Well, in that case, please make my wife win the next regional beauty contest.”

The frog agreed and asked Martha to step out of the car. Martha, looking fabulous in her holiday sundress, gracefully stepped onto the grass and approached the little amphibian.

The frog took one long, slow, deeply contemplative look at Martha. He blinked. He turned back to Arthur, scratched his little green chin, and said:

“Could I please have another look at the dog?”

Men should understand that as couples grow older, keeping up with work, household chores, and everyday responsibilities can become more tiring. When you notice this happening to your wife, the important thing is to remain patient, supportive, and above all tactful.

At least, that’s what Rob believed.

“My name is Rob, and I’d like to share how I’ve handled this delicate situation with my wife, Carol.

A few years ago, I retired. Unfortunately, we still needed additional income and health benefits, so Carol took a full-time job while continuing with some part-time work.

Not long after that, I began noticing that she didn’t seem to have quite as much energy as she used to.

For example, I normally arrive home from the golf club around the same time Carol gets home from work. Even though she knows I’ll be hungry, she often says she needs to sit down and rest for half an hour before preparing dinner.

Naturally, I don’t complain.

I simply tell her, ‘Take all the time you need, sweetheart. Just wake me up when dinner is ready.’

That’s the kind of supportive husband I am.

I usually eat lunch at the golf club, so by evening I’m looking forward to a proper home-cooked meal.

Carol used to clear the table and wash the dishes immediately after dinner. These days, however, the dishes sometimes remain there for hours.

Again, I don’t criticize her.

Instead, I gently remind her every so often that the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.

Apparently, my encouragement works because she usually manages to finish them before bedtime.

Then there’s the monthly paperwork.

Carol occasionally complains that it’s difficult to pay all the bills during her lunch break at work.

I tell her, ‘Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Spread them out over two or three lunch breaks.’

I even pointed out that skipping lunch occasionally might save her some time—and perhaps help her stay in shape.

I’ve always considered tact one of my greatest strengths.

I’ve also noticed that she takes more breaks while doing chores.

Just last weekend, she was only halfway through mowing the lawn when she stopped to rest.

Did I complain?

Of course not.

I’m a reasonable man.

I suggested that she go inside, make herself a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, put her feet up, and relax for a few minutes.

Then I added, ‘And sweetheart, since you’re already making one, could you bring me a glass too?’

I realize that by now I probably sound like an exceptionally patient husband.

But I’m not looking for praise.

Marriage is about supporting one another through life’s challenges. If just one husband reads my advice and learns to show his aging wife a little more patience, understanding, and tact, then writing this will have been worthwhile.

After all, we’re all here to help one another.”

Unfortunately, Rob’s marriage advice turned out to be his final publication.

Shortly after it appeared, Rob suffered a rather unusual and fatal encounter with his extra-long golf driver.

When investigators arrived, they found the golf club in a position that raised considerably more questions than answers.

A large hammer lying nearby raised a few more.

Carol was eventually arrested and the case went to trial.

Her defense maintained that Rob had somehow managed to accidentally sit on his own golf club.

After hearing the story, the jury returned with its verdict remarkably quickly:

**Not guilty.**

Apparently, they found Carol’s explanation far more believable than Rob’s claim that tact had always been one of his strongest qualities.

It was a typical Tuesday morning in Mrs. Patterson’s third-grade classroom at Oak Creek Elementary. Nine-year-old Tommy sat at his desk, diligently working on his math worksheet, when suddenly, he felt a warm, spreading sensation between his legs. He looked down in horror. There, right between his feet, was a growing puddle, and the front of his trousers was soaking wet.

His heart nearly stopped. This had never happened before. Not once. He couldn’t possibly imagine how this had happened—maybe he hadn’t paid attention to his body during the morning lesson, or maybe his bladder had just betrayed him at the worst possible moment.

Panic gripped him like a vice. He knew exactly what would happen when the other boys found out. They would laugh, they would point, and he would never, ever hear the end of it. He’d be “Puddle Boy” for the rest of his entire school career. And the girls? When the girls found out, they’d look at him with that mixture of pity and disgust, and they’d never speak to him again as long as he lived.

Tommy’s vision blurred with tears. He put his head down on his desk, closed his eyes tight, and whispered the most desperate prayer of his young life: “Dear God, this is an emergency! I need help right now! Five minutes from now I’m dead meat. Please, please, please.”

He lifted his head, blinking back tears, and that’s when he saw her. Mrs. Patterson was walking down the aisle between the desks, and the look in her eyes told him everything—he had been discovered. She was coming right for him.

But then, something miraculous happened.

Walking toward the front of the room was Susie, a quiet, kind-eyed girl carrying a glass goldfish bowl filled to the brim with water. As she passed right in front of Mrs. Patterson, Susie’s foot caught on the edge of a chair. She tripped, gasped, and in one fluid, inexplicable motion, the entire bowl of water went flying—straight into Tommy’s lap.

The classroom erupted in gasps. Tommy’s eyes widened in shock, but underneath the shock, his soul was singing. Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!

He pretended to be angry, jumping up and shaking his fists, but inside, he was overflowing with gratitude. And just like that, everything changed. Instead of being the object of ridicule, he was suddenly the object of sympathy.

“Oh, Tommy, I’m so sorry!” Susie cried, her face a perfect mask of apology.

Mrs. Patterson rushed over, her earlier suspicion completely forgotten. “It’s alright, dear, accidents happen,” she said gently, ushering him toward the door. “Let’s get you downstairs to the gym. I have some spare shorts you can wear while your pants dry out.”

As Tommy walked out of the classroom, head held high, he heard the other children scrambling to help. They were on their hands and knees with paper towels, cleaning up the water around his desk. The sympathy was overwhelming. Cards were being drawn, whispers of “poor Tommy” filled the air.

But as life would have it, the ridicule that should have been his had been transferred to someone else entirely. Susie. She tried to help clean up, but the other kids shooed her away. “You’ve done enough, you klutz!” they teased. “Go sit down!”

Susie sat quietly at her desk, staring at her hands, taking the gentle ribbing without a word.

Finally, at the end of the day, as the children lined up for the buses, Tommy walked over to Susie. He looked left, looked right, then leaned in close and whispered, “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Susie looked up at him, her eyes soft and knowing. She leaned in and whispered back:

“I wet my pants once too.”

Sister Mary Katherine lived in the quiet, peaceful convent of St. Jude’s, located just a single cobblestone block away from Jack’s neighborhood liquor store. Jack was a good man, a pillar of the community, and he knew everyone in the parish by name.

One crisp Tuesday afternoon, the convent doors swung open, and in walked Sister Mary Katherine. She approached the counter with a serene, pious expression and said softly, “Oh, Jack, could you please give me a pint of the finest brandy?”

Jack’s eyes widened in sheer shock. He took a step back, clutching his apron. “Sister Mary Katherine!” he exclaimed, genuinely scandalized.

“I could never do that! I have never sold alcohol to a nun in my entire life!”

“Oh, Jack, please,” she responded, her voice dropping to a confidential, sympathetic whisper. “It’s not for me. It’s only for the Mother

Superior. It helps her terrible constipation, you know. The doctor recommended a small drop.”

Torn between his principles and his desire to help a suffering elder, Jack’s resolve crumbled. “Well, if it’s for her health,” he muttered, reluctantly pouring the amber liquid into a brown paper bag and handing it over.

Later that night, Jack locked up the store and began his walk home under the glow of the streetlamps. As he passed the convent, he heard a strange, rhythmic sound coming from the sidewalk. He peered through the iron gates, and his jaw nearly hit the pavement.

There, under the moonlight, was Sister Mary Katherine. And she was absolutely, spectacularly snookered.
She was singing a highly upbeat, completely off-key rendition of “Kumbaya,” dancing a lively jig, and whirling around, flapping her arms like a giant, intoxicated pigeon right there on the public sidewalk. A small crowd of bewildered neighbors had already gathered, pointing and whispering.

Horrified, Jack pushed his way through the crowd. “Sister Mary Katherine!” he gasped, clutching his chest. “For shame! What has come over you? And you told me this brandy was for the Mother Superior’s constipation!”

Sister Mary Katherine didn’t miss a single beat of her dance. She stopped, swayed slightly, looked Jack dead in the eye with a radiant, drunken smile, and replied:

“And so it is, me lad, so it is. When she sees me, she’s gonna have an absolute coronary!”