Daily Joke: Jokes Library

Harold and Martha, a spry couple in their late nineties who had been married for seventy wonderful years, were sitting in their doctor’s office for their annual checkup. They were both perfectly healthy, but they shared one common complaint: their memories weren’t quite what they used to be. Keys disappeared, names vanished, and sometimes they forgot why they walked into a room.

The doctor smiled kindly and said, “You’re both in excellent physical shape. But to help with the memory lapses, I strongly suggest you start writing things down. It’s a simple trick, but it works wonders.”

Later that night, Harold and Martha were settled comfortably in their living room, watching their favorite game show. Harold stretched, his joints popping slightly, and stood up. “I’m going to the kitchen for a glass of water,” he said. “Want anything while I’m in there?”

Martha thought for a moment. “Well, since you’re going… could you get me a bowl of ice cream?”

“Sure thing,” Harold said, turning toward the hallway.

Martha paused, remembering the doctor’s advice. “Don’t you think you should write it down so you can remember it?” she asked gently.

Harold waved her off dismissively. “No need, my dear. I can remember it. Ice cream. Got it.”

“Well,” Martha continued, “I’d like some strawberries on top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so as not to forget the details?”

Harold sighed, patting his pocket. “I can remember that, Martha. You want a bowl of ice cream with strawberries. It’s locked in here.” He tapped his temple confidently.

“I’d also like whipped cream,” Martha added. “I’m certain you’ll forget that part—please write it down?”

Now slightly irritated, Harold huffed. “I don’t need to write it down! I have a mind like a steel trap! Ice cream, strawberries, and whipped cream. I got it, for goodness sake!”

He toddled off into the kitchen, muttering the order to himself to keep it fresh. Martha went back to watching TV, feeling confident that her treat was on its way.

About twenty minutes later, Harold returned. He wasn’t carrying a bowl. Instead, he placed a steaming plate of bacon and eggs on the coffee table in front of her.

Martha stared at the plate. She looked at the crispy bacon. She looked at the sunny-side-up eggs. She looked up at Harold, who was smiling proudly, expecting praise for his culinary skills.

She picked up her fork, took a bite of egg, and then looked him dead in the eye and asked:

“Where’s my toast?”

Colonel Sanders was in a panic. After three consecutive months of declining sales at Kentucky Fried Chicken, the buckets were piling up, the fryers were cold, and the Colonel’s famous white suit was looking a little less crisp than usual. Desperate for a miracle, he decided to go straight to the top. He picked up the phone and dialed the Vatican.

After navigating through several layers of Swiss Guards and secretaries, he finally got Pope Francis on the line.

“Your Holiness,” the Colonel began, his voice trembling with urgency. “I have a proposition that could change the world. I need you to change one tiny line in the Lord’s Prayer. Instead of ‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ I need it to say, ‘Give us this day our daily chicken.’ If you do this, I swear on my eleven herbs and spices, I will donate $10 million dollars to the Vatican immediately.”

There was a long pause on the other end. The Pope sighed gently. “My son, I am very sorry. That is the Lord’s Prayer, handed down through centuries. It isn’t something I can just change the words of for a commercial endorsement. I must decline.”

Disappointed but undeterred, the Colonel hung up. But after another month of terrible sales, his desperation grew. He called the Vatican again.

“Listen, Your Excellency,” the Colonel pleaded. “I’m serious now. I’ll double it. I’ll donate $50 million dollars if you change the words from ‘daily bread’ to ‘daily chicken.’ Think of the charities! Think of the orphanages!”

The Pope sounded tempted. “It is very tempting, Colonel. The Church could do so much good with that kind of money. We could repair the roof of St. Peter’s twice over. But, again, I must decline. It is sacred text. I cannot change the Word of God for fried poultry.”

The Colonel gave up… for a while. But after two more months of disastrous financial reports, he made one final, all-or-nothing call.

“This is my final offer, Your Holiness. If you change the prayer to ‘Give us this day our daily chicken,’ I will donate $100 million dollars to the Vatican. Cash. Today.”

The Pope didn’t answer immediately. He cleared his throat. “Let me get back to you.”

The next morning, the Pope called together all of his Cardinals and Bishops in the grand conference room. He stood at the head of the table, looking grave yet excited.

“My brothers,” he announced, “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.”

The room went silent.

“The good news,” the Pope continued, smiling broadly, “is that KFC is going to donate $100 million dollars to the Vatican. Our financial troubles are over!”

The bishops erupted in cheers. They clapped, they hugged, they whispered prayers of gratitude. Finally, the Cardinal of Finance raised his hand. “But Your Holiness, what is the bad news?”

The Pope’s smile faded slightly. He adjusted his mitre and replied:

“The bad news is that we lost the Wonder Bread account.”

Two men were hiking through the woods when they stumbled upon an enormous hole in the ground.

They stopped at the edge and peered down into the darkness.

“Wow! That looks pretty deep,” said the first man.

“Deep? That thing looks bottomless!” replied the second. “Let’s throw a few pebbles down and see how far it goes.”

They picked up several small stones and tossed them into the hole.

They waited.

Nothing.

Not even the slightest sound.

“Good grief! That must be incredibly deep,” said the first man. “Let’s try something bigger.”

They found a couple of football-sized rocks and hurled them into the hole.

They waited again.

Nothing.

The two men looked at each other in disbelief.

“Okay,” said one of them. “If those rocks didn’t make a sound, we need something much heavier.”

Just then, they spotted an old railroad tie lying in the weeds.

“Help me carry that over here. If anything is going to make a noise, that monster will!”

After considerable effort, they dragged the heavy railroad tie to the edge and pushed it into the hole.

Down it went.

Silence.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a goat came charging through the woods at full speed. It raced straight past the two men, leaped into the air, and disappeared headfirst into the enormous hole!

The men stood there with their mouths hanging open.

“What on earth was THAT?” one shouted.

A few moments later, a farmer emerged from the woods and approached them.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Have either of you seen my goat wandering around here?”

“You bet we have!” one man replied. “The craziest thing just happened! A goat came running through here like its life depended on it and jumped straight into that enormous hole!”

The farmer shook his head.

“Impossible! That couldn’t have been my goat.”

“Why not?” asked one of the men.

The farmer replied:

“Because my goat was chained to a railroad tie!”

Arthur was a seasoned travel agent who had seen it all—from honeymooners arguing over window seats to backpackers trying to book first-class suites on a shoestring budget. It had been a particularly good week at “Wanderlust Travels,” and Arthur was feeling unusually generous.

One rainy Tuesday afternoon, he looked up from his desk to see an older couple peering through the shop window. They were dressed in modest, slightly worn clothing, staring longingly at the glossy posters of turquoise beaches in the Maldives and snow-capped peaks in the Swiss Alps. They looked dejected, as if they knew such glamour was forever out of their reach.

A rare feeling of benevolence washed over Arthur. He marched to the door, opened it wide, and ushered them in with a warm smile.

“Good afternoon! I couldn’t help but notice you admiring our destinations. Tell me, have you ever dreamed of a real holiday?”

The old man sighed, shaking his head. “We’d love to, son, but on our pension, we can barely afford the bus fare to the next town, let alone a plane ticket.”

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense! Today is your lucky day. I’m feeling generous. I am going to send you both off to a fabulous, five-star resort in Hawaii, entirely at my expense. I won’t take no for an answer!”

The couple’s eyes widened in disbelief. Arthur turned to his secretary. “Janet, please write two first-class flight tickets and book the Presidential Suite at the Grand Waikiki for one week. Put it on my personal account.”

The couple was overwhelmed with gratitude. They thanked Arthur profusely, tears in their eyes, and left the shop buzzing with excitement.

About a month later, the little old lady walked back into the shop. She looked rested, tanned, and happier than Arthur had ever seen her.

“Welcome back!” Arthur said eagerly. “How did you like your holiday? Was everything to your satisfaction?”

“Oh, it was wonderful!” she gushed. “The flight was exciting, the food was delicious, and the room was absolutely lovely. I’ve come to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You changed our lives.”

Arthur beamed, feeling like a hero. “I’m so glad to hear that! It was my pleasure.”

The woman paused, tilting her head slightly. “There was just one thing that puzzled me, though.”
“Oh?” Arthur asked, concerned. “Was there a problem with the service?”

“No, no,” she said casually. “But who was that old guy I had to share the room with? I didn’t recognize him at all.”

Buck Miller was a young cowboy from the rugged hills of Montana who had recently traded his lasso for a laptop and headed off to State University. He was bright, charming, and completely terrible with money. By halfway through his first semester, Buck’s bank account was emptier than a desert well, and his ramen noodles were running low. Desperate, he hatched a plan so audacious it could only work on a father who loved his dog more than his own sanity.

He called home. “Dad,” Buck said, his voice trembling with feigned excitement. “You won’t believe what modern education is developing here! The university has launched a groundbreaking program that will actually teach our dog, Ole’ Blue, how to talk!”

There was a long silence on the other end. Then, his dad’s voice crackled with awe. “Talk? You mean like… English?”

“Exactly, Dad! Fluent conversation! But spots are limited.”

“How do I get Ole’ Blue in that program?” his dad asked eagerly.

“Just send him down here with $1,000 for the tuition fees,” Buck said smoothly. “I’ll handle the enrollment.”

Two days later, a confused but obedient Ole’ Blue arrived on campus via pet transport, along with a check for $1,000. Buck cashed the check, bought a new leather jacket, and gave the dog to a nice family in town who needed a companion.

About two-thirds of the way through the semester, the money ran out again. Buck knew he had to raise the stakes. He called home.

“So, how’s Ole’ Blue doing, son?” his father asked.

“Awesome, Dad! He’s talking up a storm. We had a deep discussion about quantum physics yesterday. But you just won’t believe this they’ve had such good results with the speech therapy that they’ve started to teach the animals how to read!”

“Read!?” his father gasped, nearly dropping the phone. “No kidding! My dog reading the newspaper? How do we get Blue in that class?”

“It’s an advanced module,” Buck said, trying to sound professional. “Just send $2,500, and I’ll get him in the class immediately.”

The money promptly arrived. Buck used it to pay off his credit card and buy a round of beers for his friends. But as the end of the year approached, panic set in. His father was expecting a talking, reading dog. Buck had given the dog away months ago. He pondered his problem again and again, until a sinister, brilliant plan formed in his mind.

When Buck finally returned home for the summer break, his father was waiting on the porch, vibrating with anticipation. “Where’s Ole’ Blue? I just can’t wait to hear him speak!”

Buck took off his hat, looked at the ground, and sighed dramatically. “Dad, I have some grim news. Yesterday morning, just before we left to drive home, Ole’ Blue was in the living room, kicking back in the recliner, reading the Wall Street Journal, as he usually does. He lowered the paper, looked me dead in the eye, and asked, ‘So, Buck, is your daddy still messing around with that little redhead who lives down the street?'”

The father’s face went white, then bright red, then a deep shade of purple. His eyes bulged. He exclaimed, “I hope you shot that lying dog before he talks that trash to your Mother!”

Buck nodded solemnly. “I sure did, Dad. Right between the eyes.”

His father let out a huge sigh of relief, patted Buck on the back, and grinned. “That’s my boy!”