Daily Joke: Jokes Library

Arthur had been at “The Rusty Nail” since noon, celebrating a promotion he barely remembered earning. By the time he glanced at the wall clock, it was 1:30 AM. Panic set in. “Darn,” he slurred to the bartender. “I need to go home now, or the wife’s going to kill me.”

He tried to stand up, but his legs felt like jelly. He toppled over awkwardly, landing with a thud on the sticky floor. “I’m just way too drunk right now,” he mumbled. “I need to sober up.”

He ordered a strong black coffee. He drank it down, waited thirty minutes, and tried to stand again. But gravity won. He fell even harder this time, knocking over a stool. Realizing that standing was out of the question, but knowing he had to get home no matter what, Arthur devised a plan. He started crawling.

For forty minutes, he dragged himself through the quiet streets, past sleeping houses and confused stray cats. Finally, he reached his front door, unlocked it with trembling hands, and crawled into bed next to his blissfully sleeping wife, Martha. He passed out instantly.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the window. Martha woke up, not kindly. She shook Arthur awake with a force that suggested violence was imminent.

“So…” she said, her voice icy. “How was last night, huh? Was it fun drinking all day?”

Arthur’s heart pounded. He was 100% sure Martha had been asleep when he got home. He decided to play it cool. He rubbed his eyes and lied smoothly, “Not really, dear. Just hanging with some coworkers… we didn’t drink much… just a couple of beers. I came straight home.”

Martha stared at him. She nodded slowly, seemingly understanding. “Ah ha. Makes sense.”

She started to turn away to make coffee, then stopped. She turned back to him, a wicked smile playing on her lips.

“Oh, by the way,” she said casually. “The bar owner called this morning. Your wheelchair is there, idiot. He wants to know if you’re coming to get it.”

Arthur was a diligent market researcher for “SmoothGlide Petroleum Jelly,” a company desperate to find new uses for their product beyond just dry skin. One sunny Tuesday afternoon, he knocked on the door of a charming suburban home. It was opened by Sarah, a beautiful young housewife with a warm smile and an air of complete confidence.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Arthur began, adjusting his clipboard. “I’m conducting some brief market research for a petroleum jelly manufacturer. I was wondering if you have ever used our product?”

Sarah didn’t hesitate. She looked him dead in the eye and replied with startling bluntness, “Yes. My husband and I use it during intercourse.”

Arthur froze. His pen hovered over the paper. His face turned a shade of crimson that matched the logo on his shirt. He had expected answers like “for chapped lips” or “to shine shoes,” not a candid disclosure of their bedroom habits. He stammered, trying to regain his professional composure.

“Um, er… I admire you for your honesty, ma’am,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “That’s very… open of you. Could you tell me exactly how you use it? For our records, of course.”

Sarah shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “It’s quite simple, really. We put it on the doorknob so the kids can’t get in.”

I was sitting at “The Rusty Anchor,” a dimly lit bar downtown, nursing a cold beer and trying to forget about my week. That’s when she walked in. She was an older woman, maybe around sixty, but she carried herself with incredible confidence. She had sparkling eyes, a warm smile, and dressed with a flair that suggested she knew exactly how good she looked.

We started chatting, and the conversation flowed easily. We drank a couple of beers, laughing about old movies and bad dates. As the night went on, I found myself thinking, She’s pretty great. I bet her daughter is absolutely stunning.

After our third round, she leaned in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you ever had a Sportsman’s Double?”

I blinked, confused. “A what? What’s that?”

She smiled knowingly. “It’s a mother and daughter threesome.”

My mind immediately raced. I pictured a glamorous younger version of her—same eyes, same smile, but with decades less wear and tear.

My heart started pounding. I shook my head, trying to play it cool. “No, I haven’t. Can’t say I have.”

We drank a bit more, the tension building. Then, she gave me a wicked wink and said, “Well, tonight’s your lucky night.”

I could barely contain my excitement. We finished our drinks, left the bar, and headed back to her place. My imagination was running wild.

I was ready for the encounter of a lifetime.

We walked into her house. It was quiet and cozy. She flipped on the hall light, turned toward the staircase, and shouted up into the darkness:

“Mom… you still awake?”

Arthur and Martha, a spirited couple in their late seventies who had been married for fifty wonderful years, decided it was time to spice things up. After hearing about the wonders of modern medicine from their neighbors at the golf club, they visited their doctor and came home with a prescription for Viagra.

That night, they took the pill, and to their absolute astonishment, they had an incredible, marathon session of romance that lasted well into the early hours of the morning. They fell asleep exhausted but happier than they had been in decades.

The next morning, Martha woke up feeling ravenous. She shuffled into the kitchen, put on her apron, and started preparing a feast. When Arthur finally stumbled into the kitchen, looking slightly disheveled but smiling, she asked brightly, “Good morning, dear! Would you like some bacon and eggs, a slice of warm toast, and maybe some fresh grapefruit juice and coffee?”

Arthur shook his head, rubbing his stomach. “Thanks for asking, Martha, but I’m not hungry right now. It’s this Viagra,” he said proudly.

“It’s really taken the edge off my appetite. I feel full of energy, but zero desire for food.”

Martha shrugged and ate her breakfast alone.

At lunchtime, she tried again. “How about a bowl of hot tomato soup, some homemade blueberry muffins, or a nice cheese sandwich?”

Arthur declined again, waving his hand dismissively. “No thanks, dear. The Viagra really trashes my desire for food. I’m just not interested in eating.”

Martha frowned slightly but kept quiet.

Come dinner time, she went all out. “Arthur, would you like a juicy rib-eye steak and some scrumptious apple pie? Or maybe a rotisserie chicken or a tasty stir-fry?”

Arthur declined once more, patting his flat stomach. “No, it’s got to be the Viagra. I’m still not hungry at all. It’s amazing how it works!”

Martha stared at him for a long moment. Then, she sighed deeply, pushed her chair back, and said:

“Well, would you mind letting me up? I’m starving!”

In the sunny, palm-tree-lined “Sunset Palms” mobile home park in Florida, lived two elderly neighbors: Arthur, a widower with a charming smile and a forgetful mind, and Martha, a widow with a sharp wit and an equally slippery memory. They had known each other for years, sharing potlucks, bingo nights, and complaints about the humidity.

One crisp Tuesday evening, the community held its monthly supper in the big activity center. The air smelled of fried chicken and nostalgia. Arthur and Martha found themselves seated at the same table, directly across from one another. As the meal progressed, Arthur noticed how lovely Martha looked in her floral dress. He felt a sudden surge of courage. Perhaps it was the sweet tea, or perhaps it was just the right moment.

He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and asked, “Martha, will you marry me?”

Martha paused. She looked at him, then at her plate, then back at him. After precisely six seconds of intense, dramatic consideration, she smiled warmly and said, “Yes. Yes, I will.”

Arthur beamed. The rest of the meal was filled with pleasant chatter and shy glances. They parted ways that night feeling like teenagers again.

But the next morning, Arthur woke up with a sinking feeling. He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples. Did she say yes? Or did she say no? He tried to replay the scene in his head, but it was like trying to catch smoke. The details were gone. Not even a faint memory remained. Was he engaged? Or had he just embarrassed himself in front of the whole neighborhood?

With trepidation, he shuffled over to his rotary phone and dialed Martha’s number. When she answered, he explained gently, “Martha, my dear, you know my memory isn’t what it used to be. I’m having a bit of trouble recalling last night.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Arthur,” she said kindly.

He reviewed the lovely evening, the fried chicken, the nice conversation. Then, gathering every ounce of courage he had left, he asked the question that had been keeping him awake all night: “When I asked if you would marry me… did you say ‘Yes’ or did you say ‘No’?”

There was a brief silence on the other end. Then, Martha’s voice came through, bright and cheerful. “Why, Arthur, I said, ‘Yes, yes I will!’

And I meant it with all my heart!”

Arthur let out a huge sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping. “Oh, thank goodness! I was so worried I’d imagined it.”

Martha chuckled softly. “And I am so glad that you called, Arthur. Because I couldn’t remember who had asked me.”