Daily Joke: Jokes Library

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.”

Once upon a time, in a town where chaos had a subscription service, lived two pint-sized troublemakers—8-year-old Timmy and 10-year-old Tommy. If something exploded, vanished, or suddenly started singing show tunes, you could bet your last cookie these two were behind it. Their parents? Totally out of ideas—and sanity.

Desperate, Mom heard about a local clergyman who’d tamed wild kids like they were feral raccoons with a stern look and a well-timed “Ahem.” She booked an emergency appointment.

The good reverend insisted on seeing the boys one at a time. First up: Timmy, age 8, fresh off a recent incident involving glitter, a garden hose, and the neighbor’s poodle.

The clergyman leaned in, eyes sharp enough to slice cheese, and boomed:
“Where is God?”

Silence.

He leaned closer, voice now echoing like thunder in a tin can:
“WHERE… IS… GOD?”

Still nothing. Just Timmy sweating like he’d been caught smuggling marshmallows into church.

So the clergyman stood up, pointed a finger like it was the business end of a divine laser pointer, and bellowed:
“WHERE IS GOD???”

Timmy didn’t wait for round four. He shot out of that room faster than a Wi-Fi signal in a thunderstorm, raced home, and dove into the closet like it was a panic room.

Tommy followed, curious. “Dude,” he whispered through the coats, “what happened?”

Timmy, wide-eyed and trembling, gasped:
“We are SO busted. They’ve lost God… and they think we took Him!”

A guy strolls over to his neighbor’s place and gives the door a knock.

An 8-year-old answers, looking like he just won a staring contest with a goldfish.

“Hey there, kiddo,” says the man. “Is your mom or dad home?”

“Nope,” the kid replies. “They hauled off to town.”

“How ‘bout your brother… Howard?” the man asks, clearing his throat like he’s about to deliver bad news wrapped in awkward.

“Nah, Howard went too,” says the boy, unfazed.

The man shuffles his feet, stares at a suspicious leaf on the ground, and mutters something about karma.

The kid, sensing weakness (or opportunity), chirps:

“I know where the tools are if you need to ‘borrow’ one… or I can take a message for Dad!”

The man swallows hard. “Well… uh… I kinda need to talk to your dad about… Howard… getting my sister pregnant.”

The boy blinks once. Twice. Then says, deadpan:

“Ohhh, that’s a livestock question. Dad charges $500 for the bulls, $150 for the pigs—but honestly? I’ve got no idea what Howard’s going rate is.”

A super-smug professor hops on a plane and ends up sitting next to a quiet old man.

Halfway through the flight, the professor gets a brilliant (in his mind) idea: “Hey, wanna play a little brain game?”

The old man squints. “What kind of game?”

“I ask you a question, you ask me one,” the professor explains. “If you get mine right, I give you a buck. If you get it wrong, you give me a buck. Easy, right?” He smirks—he’s definitely about to school this guy.

But the old man just shakes his head. “Nah.”

“C’mon!” says the professor. “If I lose, I’ll give you two bucks!”
“Nope.”
“Five bucks!”
“Still no.”
“Ten?!”
“Not happening.”

Getting desperate, the professor blurts out: “Fine! If I lose, I’ll give you a hundred dollars—and if you lose, you only owe me one! That’s gotta be fair!”

The old man thinks for a sec… then sighs. “Alright… but I go first.”

“Deal!” the professor says, already picturing his victory lap.

The old man leans in and asks:
“What’s got five heads, forty feet, and lives in a bucket?”

The professor’s brain goes into overdrive. He scribbles notes, mutters to himself, even checks the overhead bins—nothing makes sense! After an hour of mental gymnastics, he finally throws in the towel.

Grumbling, he hands over $100.
Then he snaps: “Okay, fine—what is the answer?!”

The old man shrugs with a twinkle in his eye:
“Beats me! Here’s your dollar.”

One day, Pete groaned to his buddy, “Ugh, my head’s pounding like a drum solo. Maybe I should see a doc?”

His friend grinned and said, “Nah! Skip the doctor—there’s this genius computer at the pharmacy. You tell it what’s wrong, pee in a cup, pop in $20, and boom—it spits out your diagnosis faster than you can say ‘aspirin.’ Cheaper too!”

Pete thought, Why not? So he grabbed a jar, filled it with his own pee, and headed to the store. He found the machine, poured in the sample, dropped in his $20, and waited.

The computer whirred, blinked like a disco ball, and then printed out a little slip:

“You’ve got migraines. Chill out! Get sleep, drink water, and stay away from bright lights, stress, and overworking. Come back in two weeks.”

Pete was blown away. This thing’s magic! But then… a mischievous idea popped into his head. Can it really tell what’s what?

So he cooked up a “mystery smoothie”: tap water, dog poop, his wife’s pee, his daughter’s pee, and a splash of motor oil from his car. Stirred it all together like a mad scientist and marched back to the pharmacy.

He poured the Frankenstein brew into the machine, paid another $20, and said, “Still got that headache!”

The computer buzzed, flashed, and spat out a new note:

“Your tap water’s nasty.
Your dog’s got ringworm.
Your daughter’s pregnant.
Your wife’s been… busy—five guys in six months!
And your car? Needs a new radiator.

And you’re wondering why your head hurts??”

Pete turned pale… and quietly walked out—without another word.