Daily Joke: Jokes Library

It was opening weekend at the rustic “Pine Ridge Deer Camp,” and four lifelong buddies—Jim, Bob, Frank, and Daryl—had just arrived for their annual hunting trip. The cabin was cozy, but there was one major logistical problem: they had to bunk two to a room, and absolutely no one wanted to room with Daryl.

Why? Because Daryl didn’t just snore; he sounded like a chainsaw fighting a jet engine inside a tin shed. The vibrations alone could knock pictures off the walls.

“It’s not fair to make one poor soul suffer through that all week,” Jim said, rubbing his temples. “So, let’s be democratic. We’ll vote to take turns. One night each.”

The first night, it was Jim’s turn. He walked into the bedroom looking brave, but the next morning, he stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer. His hair was standing on end, his eyes were bloodshot red, and he was trembling slightly.

“Man, what happened to you?” Bob asked, pouring coffee. “You look terrible!”

Jim slumped into a chair, yawning widely. “Daryl snored so loudly I thought the roof was coming down. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I just sat up in my chair and watched him all night.”

The second night, it was Bob’s turn. He went in with earplugs, a pillow over his head, and a prayer. The next morning, the same thing happened. Bob shuffled into the kitchen, looking like a zombie who hadn’t slept in a decade. His eyes were sunken, his skin was pale, and he was holding onto the counter for support.

“Man, what happened to you?” Jim asked, horrified. “You look awful!”

Bob groaned, rubbing his face. “Man, that Daryl shakes the entire foundation of the cabin. I couldn’t take it. I just sat up and watched him all night.”

The third night, it was Frank’s turn. Frank was a big, burly ex-football player, a true “man’s man” who wasn’t afraid of anything. The other two guys looked at him with pity as he grabbed his sleeping bag. “Good luck, buddy,” Jim said. “You’re gonna need it.”

But the next morning, Frank marched into the kitchen bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and whistling a happy tune. He looked more rested than he had in years. He poured himself a huge cup of coffee and smiled broadly. “Good morning, boys!”

Jim and Bob stared at him in sheer disbelief. They looked at each other, then back at Frank. “Man, what happened?” they asked in unison. “How are you alive? How did you survive the noise?”

Frank took a sip of coffee, winked, and replied casually:

“Well, we got ready for bed. I went over, tucked Daryl in nice and tight, patted his butt, and kissed him good night. Daryl sat up and watched me all night.”

Buck “The Iron” Miller stood before the magnificent, pearl-encrusted gates of Heaven, tipping his dusty Stetson to Saint Peter. Buck was a man of few words, many spurs, and a lifetime of questionable decisions. He looked around at the clouds, the golden light, and the infinite peace, feeling slightly out of place in his chaps and worn-out boots.

Saint Peter, holding a golden clipboard and looking over his spectacles, smiled warmly. “Welcome, Buck. Before I can let you into the

Eternal Pastures, I need to ask you one question. Have you ever done anything of particular merit? Something truly selfless, brave, or heroic?”

Buck scratched his chin, thinking hard. He shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “Well, now that you mention it, I can think of one thing,” he said, his voice gravelly with pride.

“Please, tell me,” Saint Peter encouraged.

“It was just a short while ago,” Buck began, leaning in conspiratorially. “I was riding through the Black Hills out in South Dakota, minding my own business, when I came upon a nasty gang of bikers. They had surrounded a young woman on the side of the road, threatening her and blocking her path. I directed them to leave her alone, but they wouldn’t listen. They just laughed and revved their engines.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed as he recounted the tale. “So, I spurred my horse forward. I approached the largest, meanest, and most tattooed biker in the group. Without hesitation, I smacked him right in the face, kicked his Harley over, ripped the nose ring straight out of his septum, and threw it in the dirt. I looked the whole gang in the eye and yelled, ‘Now, back off or I’ll kick the shit out of all of you!'”

Saint Peter’s eyes widened in genuine admiration. He made a note on his clipboard. “My goodness, Buck! That is incredibly brave.

You stood up for the helpless against overwhelming odds. When did this happen?”

Buck checked his pocket watch, shrugged, and replied:

Edna, a spry 76-year-old with a sharp wit and even sharper reading glasses, walked down the sterile, white hallway of the Clearview Addictions Clinic. She was on a mission. She passed signs for the “Heroin Addiction Department (HAD),” the

“Smoking Addiction Department (SAD),” and even the surprisingly busy “Bingo Addiction Department (BAD).”

Finally, she spotted the department she was looking for: the “Facebook Addiction Department (FAD).”

It was easily the busiest wing in the entire clinic. The waiting room was packed with about three dozen people, all sitting in eerie silence, their faces illuminated by the cold, blue glow of their Blackberries and iPhones. A middle-aged man with unkempt hair was pacing back and forth, muttering frantically, “I need to milk my cows. I need to milk my cows.”

In the corner, a twenty-something man was lying prone on the floor, his face buried in his hands, sobbing quietly. A curly-haired woman sat beside him, patting his shoulder gently.
“Don’t worry, Dave. It’ll be all right,” she whispered.
“I just don’t understand it,” Dave wailed, his voice cracking. “I thought my update was totally LOL-worthy. I used three emojis! But none of my friends even clicked the ‘like’ button.”

“How long has it been since you posted?” the woman asked softly.

“Almost five minutes,” Dave choked out. “That’s like five months in the real world!”

Edna shook her head, waited until her name was called, and followed the receptionist into the office of Alfred Zulu, the clinic’s senior Facebook Addiction Counselor.

“Please have a seat, Edna,” Alfred said with a warm, professional smile. “And tell me, how did it all start?”

“Well, it’s all my grandson’s fault,” Edna began, adjusting her cardigan. “He sent me an invitation to join Facebook. I had never heard of it before, but I thought it was something specifically designed for me, because I usually have my face in a book.”

Alfred nodded patiently. “And how soon were you hooked?”

“Faster than you can say ‘create a profile,’” Edna replied proudly. “I found myself logging in at least eight times each day—and more often at night. Sometimes I’d wake up at 3:00 AM to check it, just in case there was an update from one of my new friends in India. My husband didn’t like that. He said that friendship is a precious thing and should never be outsourced to a server farm.”

“What do you like most about Facebook, Edna?”

“It makes me feel like I have a life,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “In the real world, I have only five or six friends. But on

Facebook? I have 674. I’m even friends with Juan Carlos Montoya.”

“Who’s he?” Alfred asked, checking his notes.

“I don’t know,” Edna shrugged. “But he’s got 4,000 friends, so he must be famous. Or at least very popular with bots.”

“Facebook has certainly helped you make some connections, I see.”

“Oh yes. I’ve even connected with some of the gals from high school—I still call them ‘gals.’ I hadn’t heard from some of them in ages, so it was exciting to look at their profiles and figure out who’s retired, who’s still working, and who’s had some ‘work’ done. I love browsing their photos and reading their updates. I know where they’ve been on vacation, which movies they’ve watched, and whether they hang their toilet paper over or under. I’ve also been playing a game with some of them.”

“Let me guess. Farmville?”

“No, Mafia Wars. I’m a Hitman. No one messes with Edna.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you rather meet some of your friends in person?”

“No, not really. It’s so much easier on Facebook. We don’t need to gussy ourselves up. We don’t need to take baths, wear perfume, or use mouthwash. That’s the best thing about Facebook—you can’t smell anyone through a screen. Everyone is attractive, because everyone has picked a good profile pic. One of the gals is using a profile pic that was taken, I’m pretty certain, during the Eisenhower Administration.”

“What pic are you using, Edna?”

“Well, I spent five hours searching for a profile pic, but couldn’t find one I really liked. So I decided to visit the local beauty salon.”

“To make yourself look prettier?”

“No,” Edna said matter-of-factly. “To take a pic of one of the young ladies there. That’s what I’m using.”

“Didn’t your friends notice that you look different?”

“Some of them did,” Edna admitted. “But I just told them I’ve been doing lots of yoga. It works wonders for the jawline.”

“When did you realize that your Facebooking might be a problem?”

“I realized it last Sunday night,” Edna said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I was on Facebook, scrolling through my feed, when I saw a message on my wall from my husband: ‘I moved out of the house five days ago. Just thought you should know.’”

Alfred leaned forward, concerned. “That sounds serious, Edna. What did you do?”

Edna looked him dead in the eye, shrugged her shoulders, and replied:

“What else? I unfriended him, of course!”

Bill had finally reached the magical age of 65 and decided it was time to hang up his work boots and retire. For the first few weeks, it was paradise. But after having him underfoot for a few months, constantly asking what was for lunch and critiquing her vacuuming technique, his wife, Martha, became increasingly agitated.

“Bill,” she said one morning, slamming a coffee mug on the counter, “you need to get out of this house! Go do something to occupy your time. Join a club, get a hobby, I don’t care—just go!”

Bill, eager to keep the peace, obliged. He put on his best cardigan, grabbed his wallet, and headed out for a couple of hours.

When he returned, looking surprisingly chipper, Martha asked about his day. “Oh, it was great,” Bill replied, settling into his armchair. “I just went down to the park and hung out with the guys. And oh yeah, I joined a parachute club.”

Martha froze, her eyes widening in sheer panic. “What? Are you nuts, Bill? You’re 65 years old! You have bad knees and a slight heart murmur! You’re going to start jumping out of airplanes?”

“Yeah, look, I even got a membership card right here,” Bill said proudly, pulling a small, laminated card from his pocket.

Martha snatched the card, squinted at it, and then burst out laughing. She handed it back, shaking her head. “Old man, you definitely need new glasses! This isn’t a membership in a Parachute Club. This is a membership in a Prostitute Club!”

Bill stared at the card, then back at his wife. His face fell. He slumped back into the chair, looking genuinely devastated.

“Oh, great!” he groaned, throwing his hands up in despair. “Now what am I going to do? I already signed up for five jumps a week!”

It was December 23rd at the North Pole, and the atmosphere in Santa’s Workshop was less “Jingle Bells” and more “Impending

Doom.” Four of Santa’s most senior elves had come down with a nasty case of the holiday flu, leaving the trainee elves to handle the final rush. Naturally, the trainees were slow, clumsy, and kept wrapping socks instead of video games. Santa was feeling the pre-

Christmas pressure so hard his beard was starting to gray.

To make matters worse, Mrs. Claus dropped a bombshell over breakfast: “By the way, dear, my mother is coming to visit for the holidays. She’ll be here by Tuesday.” Santa felt his blood pressure spike through the roof.

He marched out to the stables to harness the reindeer, hoping for some comfort from his loyal team. But when he got there, chaos reigned. Three of the lead reindeer were heavily pregnant and waddling around uncomfortably, and two others had jumped the fence and were out, Heaven knows where, probably enjoying a bachelor party in Lapland.

Frustrated but determined, Santa returned to the loading bay to pack the sleigh. As he lifted the massive sack of toys, one of the ancient wooden floorboards cracked with a loud SNAP. The bag slipped, hit the ground, and burst open, scattering thousands of dolls, trucks, and puzzles across the icy floor.

Santa let out a roar of frustration, turned on his heel, and marched into the house for a stiff cup of apple cider and a shot of rum to calm his nerves. He opened the cupboard, only to discover that the mischievous elves had drunk every drop of the cider and hidden the liquor bottle behind the flour sacks.

In his blind rage, Santa grabbed the empty cider jug and accidentally dropped it. It shattered into hundreds of tiny, sharp glass pieces all over the kitchen floor. He groaned, went to the closet to get the broom, and found that the mice had eaten all the straw off the end of the bristles. It was just a useless stick now.

Santa stood in the middle of his broken, messy, chaotic kitchen, trembling with pure, unadulterated rage. Just then, the doorbell rang.

An irritated, seething Santa marched to the door, yanked it open with enough force to break the hinges, and there stood a small, cherubic angel holding a magnificent, towering Christmas tree.

The angel looked up at Santa with wide, innocent eyes and said very cheerfully:

“Merry Christmas, Santa! Isn’t this a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?”