Daily Joke: Jokes Library

A man summoned to testify before the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) sought advice on what to wear. He first asked his accountant, who said,
“Wear your shabbiest clothes make them think you’re broke.”

Unsure, he then asked his lawyer, who gave the exact opposite counsel:
“Don’t let them push you around. Show up in your sharpest suit and tie.”

Completely confused, he turned to his priest for guidance, explaining the conflicting advice. The priest smiled and said,
“Let me tell you a story.”

“A young woman about to be married asked her mother what to wear on her wedding night. Her mother advised, ‘Wear a thick, high-necked flannel nightgown modest and warm.’ But when she asked her best friend, she was told, ‘Wear your sexiest, lowest-cut negligee—you want to make an impression!’”

The man threw up his hands. “But what does that have to do with my IRS problem?”

The priest replied calmly,
“Simple. No matter what you wear you’re going to get screwed.”

A guy strolls out onto the sidewalk, snaps his fingers like he’s summoning a genie, and—bam!—a taxi screeches to a halt right in front of him.

He hops in, and the cabbie grins. “Now that’s timing! You’re just like Frank.”

Passenger: “Frank who?”

Cabbie: “Frank Feldman. Legendary cabbie. The human GPS with a halo. If you needed a cab, Frank was already double-parked outside your therapist’s office. Rain or shine, rush hour or zombie apocalypse—he’d be there, AC on, mints full, rearview mirror spotless.”

Passenger (rolling his eyes): “Sounds like he walked on water… in loafers.”

Cabbie: “Better! Frank could hit a tennis ace, sink a hole-in-one, and then serenade the ball with a flawless rendition of Nessun Dorma. Afterward, he’d tango with your grandma—and she’d thank him for it.”

Passenger: “Okay, okay, but nobody’s perfect.”

Cabbie: “Frank was! He remembered your third cousin’s hamster’s birthday. Knew whether to pair your existential dread with a Pinot Noir or a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. And forget IKEA instructions—Frank could assemble your entire life with a single Allen key and a smile.”

Passenger: “What about you?”

Cabbie (sighs): “I once tried to replace a lightbulb and tripped the grid for three suburbs. Meanwhile, Frank? He’d defuse a bomb while giving relationship advice to a squirrel.”

Passenger: “Dang. So… how’d you two meet?”

Cabbie, eyes twinkling: “Oh, I never actually met Frank. But I did marry his widow. And let me tell you—it’s been one long performance review ever since.”

A woman hired a contractor to repaint the inside of her house. As she guided him around the second floor, she pointed out the colors she wanted for each room. In the first bedroom she said, “I’m thinking a nice soft cream in here.”

The contractor scribbled on his clipboard, calmly walked to the window, opened it, and hollered, “GREEN SIDE UP!” Then he shut the window like nothing happened and followed her to the next room.

The woman blinked a few times but kept quiet.

“In here, maybe an off-blue,” she said.

Again, he jotted it down, strolled to the window, opened it, and yelled, “GREEN SIDE UP!” as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Now she was completely baffled, but still too polite to ask.

In the next room she said, “I’d like a light rose color in here.”

Sure enough—clipboard, window, yell—“GREEN SIDE UP!”

Finally, the woman couldn’t stand it. “Why do you shout ‘Green side up’ out my window every time I tell you a wall color?”

The contractor shrugged and said, “Oh, that? I’ve got a crew of blondes laying sod across the street, and I have to remind them which side faces the sky.”

It had been one of those days—long enough to make John the truck driver consider switching careers to professional napping. All he wanted was to get home, inhale something deep-fried, and pass out in front of the TV.

But because he lived in Washington D.C., he knew exactly what was waiting for him at rush hour: traffic thick enough to spread on toast.

Sure enough, up ahead was a traffic jam so massive it looked like the cars were spawning. No alerts on the radio, no warnings—just an enormous, motionless mess. John stuck his head out the window and all he saw were brake lights and confused faces.

Nothing. Was. Moving.

Suddenly—knock knock knock!—a guy taps on his window. John rolls it down and asks, “Buddy, what in the world is going on out there?”

The guy sighs dramatically. “Terrorists have kidnapped the entire U.S. Congress!”

John’s eyes go wide. “Holy smokes!”

“They’re demanding a hundred million dollars.”

John winced. “Oh boy… that’s steep.”

“And if they don’t get it, they’re gonna soak ’em in gasoline and light ’em up like a Fourth of July barbecue.”

John gasped. “Good Lord!”

The man nodded. “We’re going car to car collecting donations.”

John, trying to be helpful, asked, “So… how much is everyone coughing up?”

The man shrugged. “On average… about a gallon.”

It had been one of those days. John, a weary truck driver, just wanted to crawl home, eat something fried, and fall asleep in front of the TV. But living in Washington D.C. meant only one thing at rush hour—traffic hell.

Sure enough, he slammed on the brakes as a traffic jam appeared ahead—a monster jam, bigger than his mother-in-law’s opinion of herself.

He hadn’t heard anything on the radio, so he leaned out the window, hoping for answers. All he saw were cars at a standstill, people pacing, and one guy eating Pringles like his life depended on it.

Then—knock knock!—a man tapped on his window.

“What’s going on?” John asked, already regretting it.

The guy said gravely, “Terrorists have kidnapped the entire U.S. Congress.”

John’s eyes went wide. “Holy cheeseballs!”

“They’re demanding a hundred million dollars in ransom,” the man continued.

John whistled. “That’s more than Congress spends on coffee!”

“If they don’t get it, they’re gonna douse ’em in gasoline and set them on fire.”

John blinked. “Mercy, that’s rough!”

The man nodded. “We’re going car to car, collecting donations.”

John frowned. “How much are people pitching in?”

The man shrugged. “About a gallon each.”