Daily Joke: Jokes Library

A little boy came sprinting out of the bathroom, bawling his eyes out.

His dad rushed over and asked, “Whoa, what’s wrong, buddy?”

Sniffling, the kid wailed, “I dropped my toothbrush in the toilet!”

The dad sighed, “Alright, calm down. We’ll just toss it and get a new one.”

So he bravely fished the toothbrush out of the toilet (with a heroic grimace) and tossed it into the trash. When he walked back into the bathroom, he found the boy holding another toothbrush.

Dad squinted and said, “Wait a second… isn’t that my toothbrush?”

The boy nodded solemnly and whispered,
“Yeah… and we should probably throw this one out too… because it fell in the toilet four days ago .”

A mother was reading a book about animals to her 3 year old daughter.

Mother: “What does the cow say?”

Child: “Moo!”

Mother: “Great! What does the cat say?”

Child: “Meow.”

Mother: “Oh, you’re so smart! What does the frog say?”

And this wide-eyed little 3 year-old looked up at her mother and in her deepest voice replied, “Bud.”

Two cowboys are sittin’ out under the desert sky, chewing the fat and swapping stories about everything from cattle to carnal conquest.

One tips his hat back and says,
“You know what really gets my spurs jinglin’? The ol’ Rodeo Position.”

The other cowboy squints at him.
“Rodeo Position? Sounds like something you’d need a saddle and a helmet for. What is it?”

The first cowboy smirks like a man who’s both proud and slightly traumatized.
“Well, first, you get your gal on all fours—standard cowboy protocol. Then you mount up from behind, nice and easy.”

“Uh-huh…” the second says cautiously.

“Then,” the cowboy continues, “you reach around, grab the front handlebars, and whisper in her ear—real sweet—‘Dang, these feel almost as good as your sister’s.’”

The second cowboy’s eyes go wide.
“Oh hell no!”

The first tips his hat with a grin.
“Then the real challenge begins: hold on for 30 seconds without getting bucked off, kicked, or excommunicated.”

A woman with freshly dyed brunette hair walks into the doctor’s office, clearly distressed. “Doc, something’s seriously wrong! Every part of my body hurts when I touch it!”

The doctor raises an eyebrow. “That sounds… unlikely. Show me.”

So she pokes her elbow—“AAAGH!” She taps her knee—“OWWW!” She lightly presses her ankle—“MOTHER OF PEARL!”

The doctor pauses, stares at her, and asks, “Be honest… you’re not really a brunette, are you?”

She sighs. “Okay, fine. I’m actually a blonde. I dyed it last week.”

The doctor nods knowingly. “Yeah, that tracks. Your finger is broken.”

During the Great Depression — when money was tighter than a hipster’s jeans — a scruffy-looking guy strolled into a bar like he owned the joint. He slammed a stack of cash on the counter and declared, “Drinks for the house, on me!”

The bartender blinked like he’d just seen a unicorn juggling flaming bowling pins. “Buddy, this is the Depression. We don’t even look at money unless it comes with a bodyguard. You got the cash?”

The man grinned and pointed at the wad of bills like it was a newborn baby. “Oh, I got it.”

“Where the heck did you get all that?” asked the bartender, suspicious.

“I’m a professional gambler.”

The bartender snorted so hard he nearly sucked in a peanut. “A gambler? In this economy? What, you flip coins and cry half the time?”

“I only bet on sure things,” said the man smugly.

“Like what?”

“I’ll bet you fifty bucks I can bite my right eye.”

The bartender eyed him up and down. “You’re not a mutant. That’s impossible. Deal.”

The guy popped out a glass eye and chomped it like a snack. CHOMP.

The bartender nearly choked on his own regret. “You son of a—fine.” He handed over the $50.

“Double or nothing,” said the gambler. “I’ll bet I can bite my left eye.”

The bartender squinted. “You’re not blind—I saw you look at me. No way. You’re on.”

The guy pulled out his false teeth and bit his left eye. Like it was a carrot stick.

“OH, COME ON!” the bartender wailed. “Are you made of spare parts?!”

Smiling like a raccoon in a dumpster buffet, the man said, “Tell you what, just gimme a bottle of your finest scotch and we’ll call it even.”

Later that night, after enough scotch to tranquilize a rhino and a few hours of hustling the locals at cards, the guy stumbled back to the bar—drunker than a karaoke machine on tequila.

“Bartender… I got one last bet,” he slurred. “Five hundred bucks says I can stand on this bar… on one leg… and pee into that whiskey bottle behind you… without spilling a drop.”

The bartender glanced at the shelf, then at the man wobbling like a Jenga tower in an earthquake. “Buddy, you can’t even talk in a straight line. You’re on.”

The guy climbed up, balanced like a drunken flamingo, and let loose. Pee went everywhere — the bar, the bartender, the ceiling fan. Basically everywhere except the bottle.

The bartender burst out laughing, soaked but triumphant. “HA! Fork it over, you lunatic!”

The gambler climbed down, wiping tears from his eyes. “Nah, see… I just bet everyone in the back room a thousand bucks I could pee all over you and your bar and you’d still laugh about it!”