Daily Joke: Jokes Library

The Smiths had tried for years to start a family. After many consultations, hopeful tests, and quiet evenings of dreaming, they made a decision: they would welcome a surrogate father to help bring their dream of parenthood to life.

On the big day, Mr. Smith kissed his wife, Eleanor, goodbye at the front door. “Well, I’m off now,” he said, adjusting his coat.
“The man should be here soon. Just follow the plan we discussed, and everything will be perfect.”

Eleanor nodded, smiling nervously but confidently. “I’ve got this. Go, and don’t worry about a thing.”

Half an hour later, just as Eleanor was tidying the living room for the third time, the doorbell rang. She took a deep breath, smoothed her dress, and opened the door.

Standing there was a cheerful man with a camera bag slung over his shoulder and a warm, professional smile.

“Good morning, Ma’am!” he said brightly. “I’ve come to—”

“Oh, no need to explain,” Eleanor interrupted, cheeks flushing slightly. “I’ve been expecting you.”

The photographer blinked, then grinned. “Have you really? Well, that’s wonderful! Did you know… babies are my specialty?”

Eleanor’s eyes lit up. “Well, that’s exactly what my husband and I had hoped! Please, come in and have a seat.”

She gestured to the sofa, then hovered nearby, hands clasped. After a brief, polite silence, she leaned in slightly and asked, voice soft with anticipation:

“Well… where do we start?”

The photographer opened his portfolio, flipping through pages with practiced ease.

“Leave everything to me,” he said confidently. “I usually try two in the bathtub for that soft, natural light. One on the couch for a cozy vibe. Perhaps a couple on the bed for variety. And sometimes—the living room floor is fantastic. You can really spread out there.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Bathtub? Living room floor? No wonder it didn’t work out for Harry and me!”

The photographer chuckled warmly. “Well, Ma’am, none of us can guarantee a perfect result every time. But if we try several different positions—and I shoot from six or seven angles—I’m sure you’ll be thrilled with the outcomes.”

“My, that’s… a lot!” Eleanor gasped, fanning herself slightly.

“In my line of work,” he replied with gentle sincerity, “a man has to take his time. I’d love to be in and out in five minutes, but I’m sure you’d be disappointed with that.”

“Don’t I know it,” Eleanor murmured, nodding vigorously.

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a glossy portfolio. “Take a look—this one was done on the top of a city bus at sunset,” he said proudly, pointing to a golden-hour shot.

“Oh, my goodness!” Eleanor exclaimed, hand flying to her throat.

“And these twins turned out exceptionally well,” he continued, flipping the page. “Especially when you consider their mother was… well, quite difficult to work with.”

“Difficult?” Eleanor asked, intrigued.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he sighed. “I finally had to take her to the park to get the job done right. People were crowding around—four and five deep—just to get a good look.”

“Four and five deep?” Eleanor whispered, eyes wide with amazement.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “And for more than three hours, too. The mother was constantly squealing and yelling—I could hardly concentrate! And when darkness started to fall, I had to rush my final shots.”

He paused, then added with a wry smile:

“Finally, when the squirrels began nibbling on my equipment… I just had to pack it all in.”

Eleanor leaned forward, voice barely audible. “Do you mean… they actually chewed on your, uh… equipment?”

“It’s true, Ma’am,” he said solemnly. Then, with renewed enthusiasm:

“Well! If you’re ready, I’ll set up my tripod and we can get to work right away.”

“Tripod?” Eleanor echoed, brow furrowing.

“Oh yes, Ma’am,” he replied, pulling a sturdy tripod from his bag. “I need it to rest my Canon on. It’s much too big to be held in the hand very long.”

And with that, Eleanor fainted.

It was a busy Tuesday morning on the Miller farm. Arthur, a practical man with calloused hands and a calendar full of chores, was getting ready to head into town for supplies. Before hopping in his truck, he pulled his wife, Eleanor, aside to give her a quick rundown.

“Sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his cap. “The livestock specialist will be stopping by this afternoon to inseminate one of the heifers. I’ve already marked the right stall—just look for the nail I hammered into the post. That’s the one he needs to work on.”

Eleanor nodded, confident and capable. “Got it. Nail on the post, right cow. I’ll make sure he knows exactly where to go.”

Satisfied, Arthur kissed her cheek, started the engine, and headed down the gravel road.

That afternoon, right on schedule, the inseminator arrived in his company van. Eleanor greeted him warmly, led him out to the barn, and pointed directly to the stall marked with the sturdy iron nail.

“This is the one my husband mentioned,” she said cheerfully.

The inseminator stepped up, glanced at the nail, and frowned slightly. “Everything looks ready, ma’am… but what’s the nail for?”

Eleanor smiled, completely earnest, and replied:

“Oh, I figured it’s just so you can hang up your pants.”

The university lecture hall was dead silent, save for the frantic scratching of pens, the rustling of paper, and the occasional nervous sigh. It was finals week, and every seat was filled with students hunched over their desks, staring down a daunting true/false exam.

Among them sat Chloe, a bright-eyed blonde who had spent the semester juggling part-time work, a packed social calendar, and exactly three study sessions. She stared at Question 1. Then Question 2. After five minutes of intense deliberation, inspiration struck.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a shiny quarter, and began flipping. Heads? True. Tails? False. She marked her answer sheet with steady confidence. Flip. Mark. Flip. Mark. The rhythm was almost meditative.

While her classmates wrestled with ambiguous phrasing, second-guessed their instincts, and erased holes through their paper,

Chloe worked with the efficiency of a metronome. Within thirty minutes, she was done. She set her pencil down, stretched, and casually glanced around at the still-frantic room.

But as the clock ticked toward the final five minutes, something changed. Chloe’s demeanor shifted entirely. She leaned forward, eyes locked on her answer sheet, fingers moving rapidly as she began flipping the coin again—faster this time. Sweat beaded on
her forehead. She muttered under her breath, occasionally groaning in frustration, tossing the quarter with desperate intensity.

The exam moderator, a seasoned professor with decades of proctoring experience, noticed immediately. Concerned, he walked over and leaned in gently. “Is everything alright?” he asked quietly. “Do you need more time?”

Chloe didn’t look up. She just kept flipping, her voice tight with focus.

“I finished the exam in half an hour,” she replied.

“Now I’m just rechecking my answers.”

It was a crisp, golden afternoon in the countryside. Clara, a sharp-witted blonde who had grown thoroughly exhausted by the endless parade of “blonde jokes” and playful jabs about her intelligence, decided it was time for a change. She booked a salon appointment, swapped her bright blonde locks for a sophisticated chestnut brown, got a fresh makeup look, and hit the open road in her car, ready for a quiet escape.

As she wound down a scenic country lane, her tires slowed to a halt. Blocking the entire road was a massive, fluffy herd of sheep, leisurely grazing as if they owned the asphalt. Beside them stood a weathered shepherd, leaning on his crook, watching the flock with quiet patience.

Clara stepped out, adjusted her sunglasses, and approached him with a playful challenge.

“Tell you what,” she said with a confident smile. “If I can guess the exact number of sheep in your herd, will you let me take one home?”

The shepherd chuckled, glancing over his sprawling flock. It seemed like an impossible guess, so he nodded. “Alright, lass. Give it your best shot.”

Clara studied the herd for a moment, doing a quick mental tally. Then, with a satisfied nod, she announced: “You have exactly 171 sheep.”

The shepherd’s eyes widened. He counted silently, row by row. 171. Exactly. He tipped his hat, genuinely impressed. “Well, I’ll be. You’ve earned your prize. Go on, pick one out.”

Clara wandered along the edge of the flock, scanning the woolly faces until one caught her eye. It was a little fluffy creature, standing slightly apart from the rest, with an unusually bright, curious gaze. She scooped it up, cradling it in her arms as it let out a soft, happy sound.

The shepherd walked over, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Tell you what,” he said, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “If I can guess your real hair color… will you give my animal back?”

Clara laughed, figuring it was only fair. “Go ahead. Take your best guess.”

The shepherd didn’t miss a beat. “You’re a blonde.”

Clara’s smile faltered just slightly. She looked down at the little creature in her arms, which had just let out a distinctly non-sheep-like bark.

The shepherd crossed his arms, still smiling.

“Now give me back my dog.”

It was a crisp Tuesday morning, and Arthur, a seasoned painting contractor with two decades of experience and a clipboard that had logged every neutral shade known to mankind, stood in the foyer of Mrs. Gable’s newly purchased home. She was a meticulous homeowner with a clear vision, and she was ready to share it room by room.

They stepped into the living room. Sunlight streamed through the bare windows, catching dust motes in the air.

“For this space,” she said thoughtfully, tracing the wall with her hand, “I’d like a pale, calming blue.”

Arthur nodded, scribbled it down, walked over to the nearest window, slid it open, and cupped his hands around his mouth. He leaned out and bellowed toward the front lawn:

“GREEN SIDE UP!”

Mrs. Gable blinked. She didn’t ask. They moved to the dining room.

“The dining room,” she continued, gesturing to the plaster, “I’m thinking a soft, buttery yellow. Something warm, but not overwhelming.”

Arthur made another careful note. He walked to the window, pushed it open again, and yelled with the exact same unwavering conviction:

“GREEN SIDE UP!”

Mrs. Gable’s eyebrows lifted slightly. She exchanged a glance with the empty hallway but decided to let it slide. Professional courtesy, after all.

They reached the master bedroom. The walls were bare, the potential endless.

“This one,” she said with a satisfied smile, “I want a rich, warm rose color. Like a late afternoon sunset.”

Arthur jotted it down without hesitation. He marched to the window, opened it wide, and projected his voice down to the street:

“GREEN SIDE UP!”

That was it. Mrs. Gable crossed her arms, tapped her foot once, and finally asked the question that had been quietly brewing since the first room.

“Excuse me,” she said politely, “but why do you keep yelling ‘green side up’?”

Arthur paused. He closed his clipboard, adjusted his cap, and turned to her with a completely earnest, utterly unbothered expression.

“I’m sorry,” he replied evenly. “But I’ve got a crew of blondes laying sod across the street.”