04/03/2026 from Daily Jokes
#22003
After a lifetime that could only be described as… energetic… filled with late nights, questionable decisions, and more worldly possessions than a person strictly needs, a man decided it was time for a change. He sought redemption. He sought peace. He sought a monastery.
He arrived at the gates of a secluded, ancient abbey nestled high in the mountains, where the air was crisp and the silence was so thick you could hear a pine needle drop. He was granted an audience with the Abbot, a wise elder with a beard that reached his belt and eyes that had seen centuries of nonsense.
“Welcome, my son,” the Abbot intoned solemnly. “But know this: our order follows a strict code of silence. To purify the soul, we believe words are scarce treasures. You will be allowed to speak only two words… every ten years.”
The man, eager to leave his chaotic past behind, nodded vigorously. “I agree.”
And so, the novitiate began. The man swapped his party clothes for rough wool robes. He swapped cocktails for cold water. He swapped loud music for chanting. He swept floors, tended gardens, and prayed until his knees ache.
Ten years passed.
The seasons changed outside the stone walls. The man’s hair began to gray. Finally, the day arrived for his decadal review. He stood before the Abbot in the dimly lit study.
“You have performed your duties well,” the Abbot said softly. “You have remained silent. What would you say to me?”
The man thought for a moment. He remembered the freezing nights in the unheated dormitory. He looked the Abbot in the eye and said:
“It’s cold.”
The Abbot nodded, made a note in a massive ledger, and replied, “Understood. Remember, you have two more words in another ten years.”
Another ten years passed.
The man was older now. His back stooped slightly from years of labor. The routine was ingrained in his bones. Pray.
Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat. Finally, the second review day arrived. He stood before the Abbot again.
“What would you say to me?” the Abbot asked, pen poised.
The man thought about the gruel they served for dinner every single night. He thought about the lack of seasoning. He looked the Abbot in the eye and said:
“Food’s bad.”
The Abbot nodded again, made another note, and replied, “Noted. Remember, you have two more words in another ten years.”
Ten more years passed.
Thirty years total. The man was now elderly. His hands were weathered. He had dedicated three decades of his life to this order. He stood before the Abbot one final time.
“And now,” the Abbot said, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “After thirty years of service, silence, and devotion… what would you say to me?”
The man looked at the Abbot. He looked at the rough walls. He looked at his worn-out sandals. He took a deep breath and said:
“I quit.”
The Abbot didn’t blink. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t offer counsel. He simply closed the ledger, looked up with a straight face, and replied:
“Well, good. All you ever did was complain anyway.”
