Daily Joke: Jokes Library

At one point during a hockey game, the coach pulled aside one of his 7-year-old players and got down to business.

“Alright, champ,” the coach began, “do you know what cooperation means? Like, do you understand this whole ‘teamwork makes the dream work’ thing?”

The kid gave an enthusiastic nod, looking like he was ready to accept a Nobel Prize for wisdom.

“Great!” said the coach. “And you get that winning isn’t everything, right? It’s about playing together, having fun, and not turning into a bunch of angry penguins out there.”

Another eager nod from the little philosopher on skates.

“Okay, so when the ref calls a penalty,” the coach went on, “you’re NOT supposed to throw a tantrum, scream like a banshee, or shout creative insults at him—like calling him a ‘refrigerator head’ or something equally ridiculous.”

The boy nodded again, clearly soaking up all this life-changing advice.

“Also,” the coach added, leaning in dramatically, “when I bench you so someone else can play, it’s probably not cool to call me a ‘glazed donut’ under your breath. Got it?”

Nod number three. This kid was nailing the art of silent agreement.

“Perfect!” said the coach, patting him on the shoulder. “Now go explain all this to your mom because she’s currently yelling at the ref, calling ME names, and threatening to chuck her coffee cup onto the ice.”

A grocery clerk is deep in the leafy trenches of the produce aisle probably having a more meaningful relationship with romaine than with actual humans when a customer strolls up and drops a bombshell request: “Can I just get half a head of lettuce?”

The clerk blinks like he’s been asked to split an atom.
“Uh, no. We sell lettuce whole. Not half-baked… or half-leafed.”

Customer, unfazed: “Fine. Go fetch your manager. I’ll ask him.”

Clerk storms off, muttering under his breath. He finds the manager and hisses:
“Dude, there’s some total walnut out there demanding half a head of lettuce”
…then freezes.
Because standing right behind him, arms crossed and eyebrow arched like a disappointed garden gnome, is the customer.

In a flash of improv genius (or sheer panic), the clerk spins around, beams like a game show host, and announces:
“AND this fine gentleman would like to purchase the other half! It’s a lettuce love story!”

Later, after the customer departs, the manager claps him on the back:
“Smooth recovery! Where’d you learn to think on your feet like that?”

“Brazil,” says the kid proudly.

“Brazil? Beautiful place! Why’d you leave?”

Kid shrugs: “Eh… back home, it’s either soccer gods or sirens in sequins. No in-between.”

Manager’s face darkens. “…My wife is from Brazil.”

Without skipping a single heartbeat, the kid leans in, eyes twinkling:
“No way! Which club does she play for?”

Not long ago, in the dusty heart of the Outback, a lone police cruiser sat parked outside a bar like a very patient, slightly bored kangaroo. Just after last call, the officer spotted a bloke wobbling out of the pub like a penguin on roller skates—so gloriously sloshed he looked like gravity was personally offended by him.

The man staggered around the car park like he’d never seen a vehicle before, fumbling his keys into door handles like he was trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube blindfolded. He gave five wrong cars a solid go—each one politely declining his drunken advances—before finally collapsing into what he hoped was his own ride.

Once inside, he sat there like a confused sloth, watching as sober(ish) patrons peeled out one by one. Then came the main event: he fired up the engine, cranked the wipers (on a bone-dry, starry summer night), flashed his blinkers like he was Morse-coding aliens, blasted the horn like he was summoning Bigfoot, and flicked the headlights on and off like he was trying to signal a passing UFO.

He inched forward, reversed like he’d forgotten which pedal did what, then just… sat. Contemplating life. Or maybe his shoelaces.

Finally, when he was the last soul in the lot—everyone else having wisely fled—he rolled out onto the road at the speed of a sleepy tortoise.

That’s when Officer Patience™ sprang into action. Sirens wailing (well, chirping politely), lights flashing like a disco ball with authority issues, he pulled the man over and whipped out the breathalyzer.

The result? Stone-cold sober. Not a whiff of grog.

The cop blinked. “Mate… this machine’s gotta be busted. You’re coming down to the station.”

The man straightened his shirt with theatrical pride and declared, “Nah, mate. The machine’s fine. Tonight, I’m the designated decoy.”

Cue the tumbleweeds—and the officer’s shattered faith in humanity.

A 15-year-old rolled up to his house in a shiny new Porsche.
His parents nearly choked on their dinner.

“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT CAR?!” they shrieked, eyes bulging like cartoon characters.

The kid leaned coolly against the hood. “Bought it today.”

“WITH WHAT MONEY?!” they howled. “We know how much a Porsche costs—it’s basically a small country!”

“Fifteen bucks,” he shrugged.

Silence. Then louder screaming. “WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND SELLS A PORSCHE FOR FIFTEEN DOLLARS?!”

“Lady up the street,” he said. “New neighbor. Didn’t catch her name. She saw me cruising by on my rusty bike, rolled down her window, and goes, ‘Hey kid—you wanna buy a Porsche for $15?’ So… I said yes?”

His mom clutched her pearls. “Oh sweet merciful pancakes—she’s clearly unhinged! Probably lures kids in with sports cars and serves them mystery meat! John, GO. Investigate. NOW.”

So Dad marched up the street like a suburban detective, ready to confront a supervillain.
Instead, he found the “lady” cheerfully planting petunias, humming like nothing was wrong.

He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I’m the father of the boy you just sold a $150,000 Porsche to… for fifteen dollars. Care to explain?”

She didn’t even look up from her begonias.
“Oh, that? Yeah—my husband called this morning. Thought he was in Cleveland for ‘meetings.’ Turns out he’s in Hawaii with his secretary. Who then ghosted him and emptied his bank account. Left him stranded in a luau with nothing but a lei and regret.”

She patted the dirt off her gloves.
“So he begged me to sell his brand-new Porsche and wire him the cash. And honey? I did. But I kept the first $15 for emotional damages. The rest? Already on its way to paradise.”

Dad stood there, stunned.
Then quietly got back in his minivan… and drove home to rethink his entire life.

For years, four buddies have hit the same remote fishing spot like clockwork rain, shine, or questionable life choices. But this year, John’s wife dropped the ultimate anchor: “You’re not going.”

His fishing crew were gutted. What could they do? Stage an intervention? Kidnap him in his sleep? (Tempting, but legally dicey.)

So imagine their shock when they rolled into camp two days later… and there’s John tent up, fire crackling, trout sizzling, and a frosty beer in hand like he owns the place.

“John?! How the heck are you here?!” they sputtered. “Did you bribe her? Fake your own death?!”

John took a slow sip, grinned, and said:
“Well, I’ve been here since last night. See, yesterday evening I’m chilling in my recliner when suddenly bam! warm hands cover my eyes. ‘Guess who?’ she whispers.

I peel ‘em off, and there she is: hair tousled, wearing that nightie the one that says ‘proceed with caution’—and smelling like a Victoria’s Secret exploded in a candle store.

She drags me to the bedroom, which she’d turned into a rom-com meets spy thriller: rose petals, mood lighting, candles everywhere… and on the bed? Handcuffs. Rope. The whole Fifty Shades starter pack.

She says, ‘Tie me up. Do whatever you want.’

So, fellas…”
he raises his beer
“I wanted to go fishing.”