Daily Joke: Jokes Library

There was a man who worked at the Post Office and handled all the mail with unreadable addresses.

One day, a letter arrived in shaky handwriting addressed simply to “God,” with no return address.

He decided to open it to see what it said.

The letter read: “Dear God, I’m an 83-year-old widow living on a very small pension. Yesterday, someone stole my purse. It had $100 in it—the only money I had until my next pension check. Next Sunday is Christmas, and I’d invited two friends over for dinner. Without that money, I can’t buy food. I have no family to turn to, and you’re my only hope. Please help me. Sincerely, Edna.”

The postal worker was deeply moved.

He showed the letter to his coworkers.

Each one reached into their wallet and pitched in a few dollars.

By the time he’d gone around, he’d collected $96, which they put in an envelope and sent to Edna.

For the rest of the day, the staff felt a warm glow, imagining Edna enjoying a lovely dinner with her friends.

Christmas came and went.

A few days later, another letter arrived from the same woman—again addressed to God.

All the workers gathered around as it was opened.

It read: “Dear God, how can I ever thank you enough? Because of your generous gift, I was able to prepare a wonderful dinner for my friends. We had a lovely day, and I told them all about your kindness.

“By the way, $4 was missing. I’m sure it was those thieves at the Post Office!”

On a pitch-black night in Dublin, chaos erupted when a fire broke out at the local chemical plant. Before anyone could say “flammable,” the whole place went kaboom transforming into a giant bonfire with a PhD in destruction.

The alarm wailed like a banshee with indigestion, summoning every fire department within a 50-mile radius. When the first crews arrived, the panicked plant president sprinted over to the fire chief, eyes wide as dinner plates, and gasped:

“Our vault’s full of top-secret formulas worth more than my ex-wife’s lawyer! Save ’em, and I’ll toss you £50,000!”

But the flames weren’t having it. They roared like a drunk dragon at a karaoke night, keeping even the bravest firefighters at bay. Desperate, the president upped the ante: “Make it £100,000!”

Still nothing. Fire trucks lined up like fancy cars at a funeral, all shiny and useless.

Then, from the foggy distance, came a sound no one expected: the wheezing siren of a rusty, rattling fire engine that looked like it lost the war against rust in 1973. It was the volunteer crew from Ballyknacker-on-the-Bog a team of pensioners whose average age was “old enough to remember when fire was invented.”

To everyone’s shock, this ancient jalopy didn’t just pull up it barreled straight through the inferno like it had a grudge against fire and a death wish for suspension systems.

Out tumbled a squad of grey-haired heroes some leaning on walking sticks, others muttering about their hip replacements and they went to work like their bingo night depended on it. In minutes, they’d wrestled the blaze into submission and marched out with the vault intact, formulas safer than a secret recipe for Irish stew.

The president, nearly weeping, doubled the reward to £200,000 and hugged each of them like they were saints who’d just blessed his bank account.

A local news crew rushed over and stuck a mic in the face of Paddy O’Flannigan, the 70-year-old fire chief with eyebrows like storm clouds and the energy of a man who’d skipped his afternoon nap for this.

“Chief!” the reporter asked breathlessly, “What will you do with all that money?”

Paddy squinted, spat neatly to the side (missing his shoe by sheer luck), and deadpanned:

First order of business? Fix the bloody brakes on that fire engine. We didn’t drive through the fire we couldn’t stop!”

A Polish guy named Jan marries an American sweetheart. His English? Let’s just say Google Translate would’ve begged for mercy.
But love conquers language—until it doesn’t.

One frantic afternoon, Jan storms into a lawyer’s office, sweating like he just ran from IKEA without assembling anything.

Jan: “I need divorce! Fast!”

Lawyer (calmly): “Okay, okay. First—do you have grounds for divorce?”

Jan (proudly): “Yes! One acre, half-acre more, and cute little house with garden gnome named Steve.”

Lawyer: “No, no—I mean, what’s the basis of your case?”

Jan: “Concrete. Very strong. No cracks.”

Lawyer (sighs): “Alright… do either of you hold a grudge?”

Jan: “Grudge? No! We got carport. Very nice. Keeps car dry.”

Lawyer: “I mean—how are your relations?”

Jan: “All in Warsaw. Aunt Zofia sends pickles every Christmas.”

Lawyer (clutching coffee): “Is there any… infidelity?”

Jan (offended): “Of course not! We got hi-fi stereo, Blu-ray, even surround sound. Very faithful equipment!”

Lawyer: “Does your wife… beat you?”

Jan: “Never! I always wake up before her. Sometimes even before rooster!”

Lawyer: “Then… WHY divorce?”

Jan (whispering, terrified): “She trying to kill me.”

Lawyer: “What?! Proof?”

Jan: “Yes! Yesterday, she buy bottle at drugstore. Put it in bathroom. I read label myself—clear as pierogi recipe.”

Lawyer: “And…?”

Jan (dramatic pause):
“It says: ‘REGULAR POLISH REMOVER.’”

Lawyer: “…That’s nail polish, Jan.”

Jan: “Exactly! Next, she go after me—the Polish man!”

Bonus groan:
He didn’t need a lawyer… he needed a manicurist.

A duck hunter was having a peaceful morning out in the marsh, enjoying the birds, the breeze… and then nature called.

He wandered behind a tree for a quick pit stop, leaned his shotgun against the trunk, and—whoosh!—a sudden gust of wind knocked the gun over. BANG!
Next thing he knows, he’s howling in pain, shot right where no one ever wants to be shot.

Luckily, some nearby hunters heard the scream (and probably the bang) and called an ambulance faster than you can say “bad luck.”

A few hours later, he’s lying in a hospital bed when the doctor walks in.

“Alright, pal,” says the doc, “I’ve got some good news and some… well, let’s call it interesting news. Which do you want first?”

“Good news, please!” groans the hunter.

“Great! You’re gonna be just fine. The damage was all… downstairs. No major organs hit, and we got all the pellets out.”

“Phew! Okay… so what’s the bad news?”

“Well…” the doc winces, “the buckshot kinda… rearranged your manhood. I’m gonna have to send you to my brother.”

“Oh gosh… is he, like, a urologist? A plastic surgeon?”

“Not quite,” says the doctor. “He plays flute in the local orchestra. But don’t worry—he’ll teach you exactly where to put your fingers so you don’t water the whole bathroom every time you tinkle.”

Two high-society darlings are lounging on the wraparound porch of a mansion so grand it probably has its own zip code and a butler named Reginald.

The first woman sighs dreamily, “When my first baby arrived, my darling husband built this entire estate just for me.”

The second woman sips her iced tea and murmurs, “Well, isn’t that nice?”

“And when my second child popped out,” the first continues, gesturing to a fire-engine-red Ferrari gleaming in the driveway, “he surprised me with that.”

Again, the friend blinks slowly. “Well, isn’t that nice?”

Then, with a wrist flick that catches the sunlight (and possibly a few jealous stares), the first lady adds, “And when my third little bundle of joy arrived? He gifted me this exquisite diamond bracelet—flawless, of course.”

Her friend doesn’t miss a beat: “Well… isn’t that nice?”

Curious or perhaps just running out of patience the first woman finally asks, “So, what did your husband get you when your first child was born?”

The second woman sets down her glass with a serene smile. “Oh, he sent me to charm school.”

“Charm school?!” the first gasps, nearly spilling her rosé. “Good grief, why on earth would you need that?”

The second woman leans in, eyes twinkling.

“Oh, it’s terribly useful. For instance… instead of blurting out, ‘Who the hell cares?’ I now sweetly say…”

she pauses with perfect poise

“‘Well, isn’t that nice?’”