Daily Joke: Jokes Library

A young woman was getting ready for her very first date when her mother sat her down for some important advice.

“Listen, sweetheart,” her mother said seriously. “Men can be very charming, but you need to be careful. They’ll try all sorts of tricks to get what they want, so remember these three rules.

“First, never let a boy kiss your lips. They’re as delicate as rose petals, and you don’t want them ruined.

“Second, don’t let him touch your breasts. They’re as fragile as fine crystal, and you must protect them.

“And third, whatever you do, never let him near your private area. Think of it as a hot grill. Anything that gets too close could get burned!”

The young woman nodded solemnly, thanked her mother, and headed off on her date.

Her mother spent the evening checking the clock, pacing the living room, and wondering whether her daughter had remembered every word.

Finally, just after midnight, the young woman returned home with a huge smile on her face.

“Well?” her mother demanded. “How did it go?”

“Oh, Mum, it was wonderful! I think I’m in love!”

“Slow down, darling. Did he try anything?”

“Well, yes. First, he tried to kiss me, but I told him what you said about my lips. He stopped immediately.

“Then he tried to touch my breasts, but I explained what you said about them being as fragile as crystal. He stopped that, too.

“Then he slipped his hand under my skirt and started talking about my grill.”

Her mother gasped. “Your grill? What did he say?”

“He said it was a remarkable coincidence because he happened to have a lovely piece of fillet steak and wondered whether I’d let him cook it on my grill!”

Her mother nearly fainted.

“And you told him to leave immediately, I hope?”

“Well, Mum, he promised to be very careful. He kept checking the steak and taking it off the grill to let it cool down.”

The mother stared at her daughter in horror.

“And then?”

The young woman smiled dreamily.

“Well, Mum, every now and then, he asked me to taste it to see whether it was ready.”

Her mother threw her hands in the air.

“Oh, good heavens! You were supposed to protect the grill, not help him prepare dinner!”

Little Billy was sitting at the kitchen table, his tongue sticking out in deep concentration as he tackled his third-grade math homework. He was working through a list of simple addition problems, muttering to himself with intense focus.

“Two plus five…” Billy whispered, tapping his pencil on the paper. “…that son of a b*tch is seven.”

He moved to the next line. “Three plus six… that son of a b*tch is nine.”

Just then, his mother walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and froze. Her eyes went wide. She dropped her keys on the counter with a clatter. “Billy!” she gasped, horrified. “What on earth are you doing? Why are you saying those terrible words?”

Billy looked up, completely innocent. “I’m just doing my math homework, Mom.”

His mother marched over, pointing a trembling finger at the worksheet. “And is that what your teacher taught you? To call numbers ‘sons of b*tches’?”

Billy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Ma’am. That’s exactly what Mr. Henderson said.”

The next morning, fueled by righteous indignation and concern for her son’s moral education, Billy’s mother stormed into the elementary school. She demanded to see Mr. Henderson, the math teacher, right then and there.

She stood in front of his desk, arms crossed, and said sternly, “Mr. Henderson, I would like to know exactly what you are teaching my son in math class. Is it appropriate for him to be using such vulgar language while solving simple equations?”

Mr. Henderson blinked, confused. “Vulgar language? No, ma’am. Right now, we are strictly learning basic addition problems.”

Billy’s mother leaned in, her voice rising. “Then explain this! Did you teach them to say, ‘Two plus two, that son of a b*tch is four’?”

Mr. Henderson stared at her for a second. Then, his shoulders started to shake. He tried to hold it in, but a snort escaped.

Then a chuckle. Finally, he burst into uncontrollable laughter, wiping tears from his eyes.

When he finally caught his breath, still giggling, he looked at her and replied:

“Not at all, ma’am! What I taught them was: Two plus two… THE SUM OF WHICH IS four.”

Lady Penelope was a woman of immense wealth, impeccable taste, and absolutely zero empathy. As Christmas approached, she sat in her velvet-draped drawing room, sipping Earl Grey tea while her long-suffering maid, Martha, stood by with a notepad, ready to document the mistress’s charitable “generosity” toward the staff.

“Now, Martha,” Lady Penelope began, adjusting her pearl necklace with icy precision. “Let us discuss the Christmas presents for the help. What about Arthur, the butler?”

Martha hesitated, knowing her employer’s stinginess well. “Perhaps a nice set of crystal wine glasses, Madam? He has been with you for twenty years.”

Lady Penelope frowned icily, as if Martha had suggested giving the man a live tiger. “He doesn’t really need that, Martha. A butler never entertains; he serves. He’ll get a tie. A sensible, polyester blend. Next.”

Martha grimaced but kept her composure. “And what about Jenny, the young serving girl? She’s been working double shifts all month.”

Lady Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “She doesn’t really need a new dress. If she gets a fancy dress, she’ll only get in trouble or develop ideas above her station. We’ll get her another apron. She can use the old one for polishing silver.”

The conversation continued in this same vein of calculated miserliness. Martha’s patience was wearing thin, her knuckles white as she gripped the notepad. Finally, they reached the last name on the list: Martha’s own husband, George, who worked as the groundskeeper.

“I assume,” Martha said, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage, “that you want to get him something he really needs, Madam? Something practical?”

“Of course, Martha,” Lady Penelope replied, looking up from her magazine with a smug, self-satisfied smile. “I am nothing if not fair. What do you suggest for George?”

Martha looked her employer dead in the eye, dropped the pen, and said with perfect, deadpan clarity:

“Then how about three more inches?”

Jack, a sharp-suited New York attorney known for his discretion and high fees, picked up the phone to call his most important client,

Saul. Saul was a wealthy art collector with more money than sense and a portfolio that rivaled the Met Museum.

“Saul,” Jack began, his voice calm and professional, “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.”

Saul sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “Jack, honestly, I’ve had an absolutely awful day. The market is down, my caviar was warm, and my yacht needs polishing. So, for the love of God, let’s hear the good news first.”

Jack cleared his throat, choosing his words with extreme care. “Well, I met with your wife today regarding her recent ‘artistic acquisitions.’ She informed me that she invested only $5,000 in two very nice, large-scale portraits. And here is the kicker, Saul: she believes they will bring somewhere between $15 and $20 million at auction. And after reviewing the artist’s current market trends…

I think she could be right.”

There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then, Saul’s voice exploded with pure, unadulterated joy. “Holy cow! Well done! My wife is a brilliant business woman, isn’t she? You’ve just made my entire week, Jack! I feel like a new man. Now, I know I can handle anything. What is the bad news?”

Jack took a deep breath, adjusted his tie, and replied with gentle, devastating precision:

“The pictures are of you and your secretary.”

Forrest Gump stood before the magnificent, pearl-encrusted gates of Heaven, his hands clasped politely behind his back. Saint Peter, holding a golden clipboard and looking slightly weary from centuries of administrative work, greeted him with a warm smile. “Ah, welcome, Mr. Gump. We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival. Your life was… certainly unique.”

Forrest looked intently at the swirling clouds and the golden light, not quite sure what to make of the scene in front of him. He gave a polite nod.

“Forrest,” Saint Peter began, adjusting his spectacles, “before I can let you into Heaven, I need you to answer three simple questions to verify your wisdom. Would that be alright?”

Forrest nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, Forrest,” Saint Peter said, tapping his pen. “First question: How many seconds are in a year?”

Forrest thought for a moment, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. Then, he looked up and confidently answered, “Twelve.”

Saint Peter blinked, completely befuddled. “Twelve?! You believe there are only twelve seconds in a entire year? Please explain your reasoning.”

Forrest shrugged, his expression perfectly earnest. “Well, there’s January 2nd, February 2nd, March 2nd, April 2nd…”

Saint Peter held up a hand, stopping him mid-list. He rubbed his temples, realizing the sheer, linguistic cleverness of the answer. “Okay, I suppose you’re technically correct. That will do.” Forrest cracked a small, proud smile.

“Alright, Forrest,” Saint Peter continued, trying to regain his composure. “Second question: How many days of the week begin with the letter ‘T’?”

Forrest thought for a moment, counting on his fingers. He furrowed his brow a bit, then replied, “Four.”

Saint Peter was again taken off guard. “Four?! How on Earth do you get four? There’s Tuesday and Thursday… that’s only two!”

Forrest looked Saint Peter dead in the eye, his voice steady and logical. “Well, you got Tuesday, Thursday, Today, and Tomorrow.”

Saint Peter nearly fell over with incredulity. He stared at Forrest, who just stood there, waiting patiently. “Okay,” Saint Peter sighed, checking a box on his clipboard. “I suppose that’s also technically correct.” Forrest’s smile grew wider.

“Ok, Forrest, lastly,” Saint Peter said, deciding to go for the ultimate theological test. “What is God’s real name?”

Forrest thought about the question. His brow wrinkled, a little bit of sweat began to form on his forehead. The stakes were high. Then, Forrest’s eyes grew wide, and he said with booming, gospel-level authority:
“Andy! God’s real name is Andy!”

Saint Peter slammed his hands down onto the podium, his jaw dropping. “ANDY?! How, please tell me, did you arrive at ANDY?!”

Forrest looked Saint Peter dead in the eye, tilted his head, and said:
“Like the song says, ‘Andy walks with me, Andy talks with me…'”

Saint Peter froze. He slowly lowered his head, sheepishly looked at Forrest, and whispered:
“Welcome to Heaven, Mr. Gump.”