Daily Joke: Jokes Library

A young professor was giving an assignment to a classroom full of adult college students.

It was a long assignment, so she began writing instructions high up on the board.

Suddenly, she heard a chuckle from David in the back row.

She turned around.

“David, would you mind telling the class what’s so funny?”

David tried to stop laughing.

“Sorry, Professor. When you reached up, I caught a glimpse of one of your garters.”

The professor was not amused.

“David, get out of my classroom. I don’t want to see you for the next three classes!”

David gathered his things and left.

The professor turned back to the board. A moment later, she realized she’d forgotten to write the title of the assignment, so she stretched even higher to reach the top.

This time, Billy burst out laughing.

She spun around.

“Billy! And what exactly is so funny?”

Billy reluctantly answered, “Well, Professor… this time I saw both garters.”

Her face turned red.

“That’s enough! Out! I don’t want to see you in this classroom for three weeks!”

Billy quickly grabbed his backpack and disappeared through the door.

Now thoroughly embarrassed and frustrated, the professor turned back toward her desk and accidentally knocked the board eraser onto the floor.

She bent down to pick it up.

Suddenly, there was an enormous burst of laughter from the back of the room.

Before she could even turn around, she noticed Johnny calmly packing his books into his bag and heading for the exit.

“Johnny!” she called. “Where do you think you’re going? I haven’t dismissed you!”

Johnny stopped at the doorway, looked back at her, and sighed.

“Professor, judging by what David and Billy got…

after what I just saw, I think my college career is officially over.”

Mark and Claire had been happily married for ten years, but there was one glaring omission in their lives: children. They hadn’t used birth control for the entirety of their marriage, yet month after month, nothing happened. Growing increasingly worried that they might have a biological issue conceiving, they decided it was time to seek professional help.

Claire, who had been hard of hearing since she was a little girl, volunteered to go to the gynecologist first to see if the problem lay with her.

A few days later, she sat in the sterile, brightly lit examination room, nervously twisting the straps of her handbag. Dr. Evans walked in, holding her chart with a deeply sympathetic, almost sorrowful expression. He sat down across from her, folded his hands, and delivered the diagnosis with the utmost gravity.

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” the doctor said gently, his voice full of clinical concern. “But the problem is with you. You have insufficient passion, and if you ever have a baby, it will be a miracle.”

Claire was absolutely devastated. Tears streamed down her face as she nodded numbly, gathered her things, and drove home in a state of sheer, unadulterated despair.

When Mark walked through the front door that evening, he immediately dropped his briefcase. Claire was sitting on the sofa, sobbing uncontrollably into a tissue.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” he asked, rushing over to comfort her. “What did the doctor say?”

Claire looked up at him, her face red and streaked with tears, and wailed:

“The doctor told me I’ve got a fish up my passage, and if I ever have a baby, it will be a mackerel!”

It was the wedding night, and the newly married couple finally found themselves alone in their honeymoon suite.

The candles were lit, the champagne was poured, and the atmosphere was thick with romance and nervous anticipation. This was to be their very first night together as husband and wife.

As her new husband began to get undressed, the wife noticed something rather peculiar. When he pulled off his trousers, she gasped. His knees were absolutely covered in strange, mangled scars.

“Good heavens, darling!” she exclaimed. “What on earth happened to your knees?”

He looked down sheepishly and explained, “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about. When I was a child, I had kneasels.”

“Kneasels?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “What on earth is that?”

“Kneasels are exactly like measles,” he replied matter-of-factly, “except they only affect the knees.”

She blinked, processing this bizarre medical information, but decided to let it go. He continued to undress, and as he pulled off his socks, she noticed that his toes were equally mangled and scarred.

“And your toes!” she cried. “What happened there?”

“Oh, that,” he said casually. “When I was younger, I had tolio.”

“Tolio?” she asked, her confusion growing. “What on earth is that?”

“Tolio is exactly like polio,” he explained with a shrug, “except it only affects the toes.”

She stared at him, her mind racing as she began to recognise a deeply concerning pattern. As his hands moved toward the waistband of his boxer shorts, she threw her hands up and shouted:

“Don’t tell me  let me guess. Small cox!”

John and his wife, Claire, were eagerly awaiting the arrival of their first child at the local maternity ward. Claire was in the final, most intense stages of labor, gripping the bedrails and breathing heavily, while John held her hand, looking completely helpless.

Suddenly, the attending obstetrician walked in with a bright, innovative smile. “I have some great news,” the doctor announced. “We are currently testing a revolutionary new machine that can transfer a portion of the mother’s labor pain directly to the father. Would you two be willing to try it out?”

Desperate for any relief, John and Claire enthusiastically agreed.

The doctor wheeled in a sleek machine, attached a few sensors to Claire, and placed a comfortable-looking helmet on John’s head. “Let’s start with just 10%,” the doctor explained. “Even that is probably more pain than you’ve ever experienced in your life.”

He flipped the switch. John braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut… but after a few seconds, he opened them and shrugged. “Honestly, doc? I feel great. Not a thing.”

Impressed, the doctor adjusted the dial. “Let’s try 20%.” Again, John just sat there, casually checking his watch.

The doctor, amazed by the man’s high pain tolerance, bumped it up to 50%. John was practically humming a tune, feeling absolutely fantastic.

Seeing how much the machine was helping Claire, who was now relaxing and smiling through her contractions,

John felt a surge of heroic husbandly devotion. “Doc,” he said confidently, “she’s doing so much better. Go ahead and transfer ALL of it to me. Give me 100%.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow but obliged, turning the dial all the way to the max. Claire delivered their beautiful, healthy baby boy a few minutes later with virtually zero pain. The couple was absolutely ecstatic, overjoyed by the miraculous, painless experience.

After the paperwork was signed and they were finally discharged, the happy new parents drove home, beaming with pride. But as they walked up the driveway and opened their front door, their smiles instantly vanished.

Lying completely motionless on their front porch was the local mailman, stone cold dead.

It was a quiet Tuesday morning in the sunlit common room of the Shady Pines Retirement Village, where three residents were gathered around a coffee table, sharing their daily grievances about the inevitable march of time.

Arthur, who had just celebrated his sixtieth birthday, shook his head in deep despair. “Sixty is the absolute worst age to be,” he declared, stirring his decaf coffee. “You constantly feel like you have to use the restroom. And most of the time, you stand at the porcelain throne, you wait, and absolutely nothing comes out!”

Bernard, a spry seventy-year-old, let out a hearty, knowing chuckle. “Ah, that’s nothing, Arthur,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “When you’re seventy, your entire digestive system just gives up the ghost. You don’t have a proper bowel movement anymore. You take the strong laxatives, you eat the bran muffins, you sit on the toilet reading the newspaper for hours… and still, nothing comes out!”

Walter, the serene and deeply wrinkled eighty-year-old at the end of the table, slowly lowered his crossword puzzle. He adjusted his thick spectacles and sighed heavily. “Actually, gentlemen, eighty is the worst age of all by a long shot.”

Arthur leaned forward, sympathetic. “Do you have trouble peeing too, Walter?”

“No, not really,” Walter replied smoothly. “I pee every single morning at exactly 6:00 AM. I pee like a racehorse on a flat rock. No problem at all.”

Bernard raised an eyebrow. “And do you have trouble having a bowel movement?”

“Not at all,” Walter said, his voice steady and proud. “I have one every morning at exactly 6:30 AM. Like clockwork.”

Arthur stared at him, completely bewildered and growing increasingly exasperated. “Let me get this straight. You pee every morning at 6:00, and you poop every morning at 6:30. So what on earth is so tough about being eighty?!”

Walter looked Arthur dead in the eye, let out a long, weary sigh, and delivered the final blow:

“I don’t wake up until 7:00.”