Jokes

Wow, honey, I never thought our son would go that far!

Yeah, the catapult is really amazing. Go get our daughter!

“Darren vs. The Week From Hell”

It all started Monday morning when Darren woke up sounding like a haunted kettle. His throat was so sore, even whispering felt like gargling gravel. He tried to call in sick, but his voice came out like a broken kazoo. His boss thought it was a prank call and told him to “grow up and get to work.”
So Darren dragged himself to the office, armed with cough drops, tissues, and the aura of someone who’d lost a duel with a tumble dryer. By 10 a.m., he’d sneezed so violently he accidentally sent a spreadsheet to the entire company with the subject line: “I am mucus incarnate.”
Tuesday, he tried to make tea to soothe his throat. He grabbed what he thought was honey, but it was mustard. His taste buds filed a formal complaint. Then he tried a hot shower, but the boiler had other plans—it gave him a lukewarm drizzle that felt like being judged by a cloud.
Wednesday, he attempted a nap, but his upstairs neighbor decided it was the perfect time to practice indoor bowling with bricks. Darren tried noise-cancelling headphones, but they only cancelled nice noises. The bricks came through loud and proud.
Thursday, he finally saw a doctor, who said, “It’s just a virus, it’ll pass.” Darren asked, “When?” The doctor shrugged like a man who’d just read spoilers for Darren’s life and didn’t want to ruin the ending.
Friday, he tried to cheer himself up with a movie. He picked a rom-com, but the streaming service glitched and played a horror film called Cough of the Damned. He sneezed during a jump scare and accidentally threw his soup across the room.
Saturday, he gave up and tried to sleep through the day. But his sore throat had evolved into a sentient entity that woke him up every hour just to remind him it was still angry.
Sunday, Darren finally felt a bit better. He stepped outside for fresh air… and got hit in the face with a rogue flyer advertising flu shots.

Moral of the story: when life gives you lemons, don’t make tea—you’ll probably be out of honey and end up with mustard again.

What do you call a ventriloquist act with no puppets?

A show of hands.

I asked the IT guy, “How do you make a Motherboard?”

He said, “I tell her about my job.”

Why don’t lions like playing cards in the wild?

Because of too many cheetahs!

(Part 2 of poor Darren...

“Darren vs. The Cosmic Spite Sequel”

Monday was bad, sure. But next Monday? Darren woke up feeling slightly better—just enough to believe he could rejoin society. He put on jeans for the first time in a week, which felt like wrestling a denim python. He stepped outside, took a deep breath… and immediately swallowed a fly.
Tuesday, he tried to treat himself to a takeaway. He ordered soup. The delivery driver handed him a smoothie. Darren said, “This isn’t soup.” The driver shrugged and said, “It’s liquid. Close enough.” Darren drank it. It was kale and betrayal.
Wednesday, he decided to do laundry. He misread the symbols (again) and accidentally boiled his jumpers into wool pancakes. His favourite hoodie now fit his cat. He doesn’t have a cat.
Thursday, he tried to meditate. His neighbour started playing the recorder. Badly. It sounded like a goose being interrogated.
Friday, he thought, “I’ll go to the pharmacy and get something strong.” He got there. It was closed. A sign read: “Back in 10 minutes.” He waited 45. The sign never changed. He suspects it’s been there since 2003.
Saturday, he finally got some meds. Took them. Slept like a log. Woke up to find his phone had autocorrected his sick note to: “I am currently unavailable due to being possessed by a throat demon.” His boss replied, “Take all the time you need.”
Sunday, Darren gave up. He wrapped himself in a blanket burrito, watched a documentary about penguins, and whispered hoarsely, “They have it figured out.”

A friend of mine is an agnostic, dyslexic insomniac.

He stays up all night long wondering if there’s a dog.

Why do North Koreans draw the best straight lines?

They have a supreme ruler.

“The Matting of the Shire: A Domestic Horror joke story”


It began innocently enough. Jamie and Tasha had just moved into their new flat—a cozy little place with questionable plumbing and a bathroom the size of a cereal box. In their quest for comfort, they bought what looked like a plush, cloud-like bath mat from a discount home store. The label read: “Ultra-Absorbent. Memory Foam. Machine Washable. Possibly Sentient.”
They ignored the last part.
Day 1: The mat was soft. Too soft. Like stepping on a marshmallow that whispered, “Welcome.”
Day 3: It started retaining water. Not absorbing—retaining. After every shower, it squelched like a swamp. Jamie swore he saw ripples.
Day 5: Tasha tried to wash it. The washing machine groaned. The mat emerged heavier, darker, and somehow... angrier. It now smelled faintly of despair and lavender.
Day 7: The mat began migrating. It was no longer content to stay by the tub. They’d find it halfway down the hallway, damp and defiant. Once, it was curled around the toilet like it was guarding something.
Day 10: Jamie slipped on it and swore the mat grabbed his ankle. Tasha laughed—until she saw the mat had left a faint imprint of a face. Smiling.
Day 12: They tried to throw it out. It reappeared the next morning, back in its spot, smug and slightly puffier.
Day 15: They called a priest. The priest took one look, muttered “Nope,” and left.
Day 20: They moved out. Left everything behind. Except the mat. It was already packed. In the boot.