Daily Joke: Jokes Library

At St. Peter’s Catholic Church, they run a weekly support group for husbands called “How Not to Sleep in the Doghouse.”

Last week, the priest turned to Giuseppe—a man celebrating 50 years of holy matrimony and asked him to share his secrets with the roomful of shell-shocked spouses.

Giuseppe cleared his throat and said proudly, “Wella, I’va always tried to treata her nicea buy her flowers, spenda da money, take her on trips… Besta thing I ever did? I tooka her to Italy for our 25th!”

The priest beamed. “Giuseppe, you’re a beacon of marital bliss! So… what grand romantic gesture do you have planned for your golden anniversary?”

Giuseppe puffed out his chest and declared, “I gonna go picka her up from the airport! She’s still in Italy. Apparently, she liked it so much, she never came back after the 25th.”

During a check-up, I asked my doctor, “How do you decide if someone’s ready for a long-term care home?”

He leaned in like he was about to reveal the secret to eternal youth and said, “We fill a bathtub to the brim. Then we hand the person a teaspoon, a teacup, and a bucket—and ask them to empty it.”

“Ah!” I nodded wisely. “So the right answer is the bucket—it holds way more than the spoon or the cup!”

He gave me that look—the one doctors reserve for patients who confidently Google their own symptoms—and said, “Nope. A normal person just pulls the plug.”

Then he added with a grin, “So… would you like your room near the window?”

One afternoon, a woman came home early from work and caught her husband in bed with a stunning young woman.

Furious, she screamed:
“You cheating, two-timing slug! How could you?! I’ve been loyal, I’ve raised your kids, I’ve put up with your snoring—and now THIS?! I want a divorce. TODAY.”

Her husband held up a hand.
“Hang on, sweetheart—just let me explain.”

She crossed her arms. “Fine. These are your last words. Make ‘em good.”

He cleared his throat dramatically:
“Okay, so… after work today, I got in the car, and this poor woman flagged me down for a ride. She was skin-and-bones, covered in mud, and said she hadn’t eaten in three days.”

“My heart broke! So I brought her here—figured I’d feed her before dropping her off. Gave her that plate of goulash I made you last night—the one you refused because you were ‘watching your figure.’ She scarfed it down like it was Michelin-starred.”

“Then I let her shower. While she was cleaning up, I saw her clothes were basically compost. So I tossed ‘em. Figured she needed something decent—so I gave her those jeans you haven’t worn since 2019 because they ‘squeeze your thighs.’”

“Then I grabbed the lacy underwear I bought you that you said made you ‘look like a rejected burlesque act.’”

“Oh! And that hideous Christmas sweater from my mom—the one you swore you’d never wear just to ‘teach her a lesson’? Yeah, she got that too.”

“Even tossed in those designer heels you wore once and then complained about because ‘Janice from accounting had the same pair.’”

He paused for effect… then leaned in with a grin:
“And as I walked her to the door, she turned to me—eyes glistening—and whispered…”

“‘You’re such a kind soul… Is there anything else your wife doesn’t use?’”

A soda salesman staggers back from Saudi Arabia, looking like he just chugged a warm can of regret.

His buddy spots him and says, “Whoa—why the long face? Did your Coke go flat… or did you?”

The salesman sighs: “My whole campaign bombed harder than a dropped soda can in a silent library.”

“What?! But I heard you had a killer pitch!”

“Oh, I did!” he groans. “Since I don’t speak Arabic, I went full silent-movie genius. I designed three posters to tell the story:

Poster 1: Guy chugging the new Coke—alive, energized, practically doing backflips.
Poster 2: Same guy enjoying a refreshing sip.
Poster 3: Him flat on his back in the desert, totally passed out from dehydration.

I plastered those bad boys everywhere. You couldn’t sneeze in Riyadh without seeing my ads!”

His friend blinks. “Wait… that sounds amazing! What went wrong?”

The salesman slumps further.
“Turns out… they read from right to left. So the story they saw was:
‘Drink this magical soda… feel okay for a sec… then collapse and die in the desert.’”

His friend winces. “Yikes. So instead of selling refreshment… you sold a public health warning?”

“Pretty much,” the salesman mutters. “Now the Ministry of Health wants to ban my ‘energy drink’… and I think I’m on an Interpol watchlist.”

A guy shuffles up to the Pearly Gates, looking hopeful—only to find a celestial bouncer in a halo and wings giving him the once-over.

“Welcome,” says the angel, clipboard in hand. “Heaven’s not exactly a walk-in situation. We’ve got standards.”

“Were you religious?”
“Nah.”
“…That’s not great.”

“Generous? Donated to charity? Dropped a quid in a tin?”
“Not really.”
“Also… not great.”

“Any good deeds? Held a door? Let someone merge in traffic? Anything?”
“Uh… nope.”

The angel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mate, everyone does one decent thing. Think! I’m literally trying to get you in here!”

The man scratches his head. “Well… there was this one time. I walked out of Tesco, and this sweet old lady was getting mobbed by a gang of Hell’s Angels—leather, tattoos, the whole ‘I-break-spines-for-breakfast’ vibe. They’d snatched her handbag and were shoving her around like she owed them rent.

I saw red. Dropped my shopping, charged in like a caffeinated badger, wrestled her purse back, helped her up—and then I marched right up to the biggest, scariest biker, called him a spineless wanker, and spat right in his face!”

The angel’s eyes widen. “Blimey! That’s actually… wow. Heroic! When did this happen?”

The man shrugs. “’Bout ten minutes ago.”

The angel blinks. “…So… you’re not dead yet?”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere below: “OI! YOU DROPPED YOUR KEYS!”