Tag Archives: jokes

Give Me a Sign


Signs are fun to mock. Specifically, they’re fun to mock when they’re not specific.

On an elevator: “In case of fire, use stairs.” Since when can you use a flight of stairs to put out a fire? Same with “in case of fire, break glass. Breaking the glass does little to quench out the raging inferno springing from the breakroom microwave. Using the fire extinguisher stored behind the glass will.

On a curvy road: “Blind drive.” Now, that’s just ridiculous. The blind should not be driving, unless seeing-eye dogs can do more than we give them credit for. Of course, if blind people do drive, then that explains the braille on drive-through ATMs.

At an intersection: “No turn on red.” Ok. This is an intersection. Not a game of Twister. Now, if you don’t want me to turn right when the traffic light is red, that would be more understandable.

At the end of a construction zone: “END road work.” Yes, I agree. I really wish that they’d stop the road work, too. Traffic in Anytown is congested enough as it is without all the road repair. But putting up a big orange sign in protest will likely not accomplish anything. Nice try, though.

On a back road: “Bump ahead.” Somehow I doubt my passenger would appreciate me punching the side of his head every time I see one of those signs.

On a residential suburban street: “SLOW children at play.” Now, that’s just rude. Just because the kids aren’t as quick-witted as some of their peers doesn’t mean we have to put a sign up to advertise. Let’s be sensitive here, people.

You see? Life is more fun when taken literally.


It’s a Matter of Priorities


No, neither of these stories is original to me. They’re jokes I found when I did a Google search for “Christmas story jokes.” If you want the page they came from, click here.

What intrigued me about these jokes was not necessarily their content, but their packaging. So I present them to you in the same manner as you would read them at the website.

What A Boy Wants For Christmas

Darren remembers accompanying his father out shopping in the toy department of Hamleys one Christmas Eve.

Dad said, ‘What a marvellous train set. I’ll buy it.’

The girl behind the counter looked pleased and murmured, ‘Great, I’m sure your son will really love it.’

Dad replied with a glint in his eye, ‘Maybe you’re right. In that case I’ll take two.’

What A Girl Wants For Christmas

The Santa Claus at the shopping mall was very surprised when a Emily, young lady aged about 20 years old walked up and sat on his lap.  Now, we all know that Santa doesn’t usually take requests from adults, but she smiled very nicely at him, so he asked her, ‘What do you want for Christmas?’

‘Something for my mother, please,’ replied Emily sweetly.

‘Something for your mother? Well, that’s very loving and thoughtful of you,’ smiled Santa. ‘What do would you like me to bring her?’

Without turning a hair Emily answered quickly, ‘A son-in-law.’


Idiotic Idioms


The English language, while rich in history, nuance, and variety, is one of the most bothersome languages ever breathed. Half of it is completely illogical, and the other half doesn’t make much sense either. Grated, it makes sense to those of us in the North Americas and the British Isles, but that’s only because we were raised with it. And as much as I love the English language (I am a creative writing major after all), I love it more out of loyalty and familiarity than out of practicality. I doubt that anything in this post will be anything you haven’t heard before, but as “there is nothing new under the sun,” I figure it’s all worth repeating for the sake of a good laugh.

If the plural of goose is geese, why is the plural of moose not meese?

Why do we drive on parkways and park in driveways?

Why is half a pair of scissors not a single scis?

Why do we say that flattery is “buttering someone up”? Does anyone other than me think about how gross that sounds?

Every time a friend tells me about someone having a chip on the shoulder, I want to ask if it’s potato or tortilla.

When someone beats around the bush, why is he not taking a stick and attacking the ground around a shrubbery?

When you tell me that that your employee who was let go because he simply couldn’t cut the mustard, I suggest that perhaps he would’ve had better success if he had tried using a spoon instead.

Has anyone else ever been tempted, whenever a friend has told you that he’s found his feet in his new job/major/neighborhood, to tell him he could’ve found them a lot quicker had he just looked down?

How can something go down like a lead balloon? Who in their right mind would make a balloon out of lead?

Why are only sick people the ones under the weather? Aren’t we all under some kind of weather every day of our lives? Sunny? Rainy? Snowy? Foggy?

And why, oh why, do authority figures always give commands without giving commands? You know what I’m talking about. Instead of simply saying “Take out the trash,” one will say “Would you mind taking out the trash?” Or still worse, he or she will ask “Would you like to take out the trash?” Woe be unto you, should you answer that question honestly.

Oh, well. That’s English for you.

Feelin’ that ‘Beautiful Irony’


I’m sure that I’m not the only blogger who gets a kick out of the spam comments that get hung up in the Akismet filter. A few of you may remember the “hot shot bald cop” fiasco of a few months ago, where a friendly-sounding commenter under that name would leave helpful, deep comments like “right on” and “way to preach it, bro” at the ends of posts about, oh, say, how to steam broccoli or how to host the perfect bar mitzvah. Oddly, the link associated with his name led straight to an IMDB page about Ed Lauder…whoever he is.

Ever since I started getting Spam, I vowed not to quote any of it on my blog. I promise you that I did. Half of it is worthless Spam Bot spawn anyway, usually long paragraphs about web servers that read like Chinese technical manuals run through Google translate. Not even remotely funny. Well, funny scoff more than funny ha-ha. But not funny enough to share.

But this one the other day broke all boundaries:

When you smacked a child within the encounter with a bottle of Johnson’s No Additional Tears, would it generate beautiful irony?”

I could enumerate all of the reasons why this made me laugh. But I can’t find the words. I don’t know anything about “Johnson’s No Additional Tears,” but I was in tears when I finished reading it. Tears of hysterical laughter. What genius programmed that Spam Bot, I wonder. Someone clearly has too much spare time on their hands.

And hopefully all you aspiring writers out there can find a less violent means of generating beautiful…I mean effective irony.

That’s All, Folks


Attention: due to a lack of sleep, stamina, caffeine, and remaining brain cells, The Risible Rambler’s daily update will be slightly less risible than usual.

She apologizes first for not having anything funny to say, second for letting the risible well run dry every Thursday, and third for being so self-consciously apologetic about it.

But the funniest thing she can think of right now is that she dropped her toothbrush down beside the sink and it landed in the farthest corner possible from reach. When said toothbrush was finally rescued, it brought about ten generations of dust bunnies with it. It is currently recovering in a solution of dish soap and hot water.

It’s lame. She knows. But for now, that is the best she can do.

Have a beautiful Thursday.

A Modest Proposal


Dear Mr. President*,

It’s amazing what a deadline can do to one’s priorities. Our lives follow a careful structure that ascends and descends in an established hierarchy based on our backgrounds, our beliefs, our morals, etc. Family before friends, God before country, homework before video games, right before left, dinner before desert—and depending on who you are and what you believe, all of those may be the same or reversed.

But when it comes down to crunch time, a lot of that goes out the window. Otherwise normal, healthy, rational human beings decide that deadlines are more important than dinner and study is more important than sleep. College and work environments are known for inducing this kind of mass degradation of priorities. Mothers and fathers are never at home to play with their little ones, busy climbing ladders to keep food on the table and SUV’s in the driveway. Students sacrifice their health and wellbeing for alphabetical notations on their report cards, striving for A’s and B’s even if they know they’ll go grey be the time they’re twenty. Politicians trade morals for enough support come election day. All for the sake of meeting a deadline.

As this abandonment of priorities can do nothing but harm for the government, families, and individuals of America, I would like to lay down a modest proposal for the eradication of this wide-spread problem.

No more deadlines.

Facetiously yours,

Miss R. Rambler


*Of Undisclosed University

As Said Through a Mouthful of Leftover Tortilla Chips


Am I busy?

Is the Pope Catholic?

Let’s just say that as far as coffee goes, today and Friday will be double-triple-quadruple-ad-infinitum-cuppers.

Three tests on Friday. Less than 24 hours to study for them. Computer fluency, philosophy (Pre-Socratic philosophers. It’s Greek to me.), and late British literature. Quiz in voice yoga voice and articulation class. Project for computer fluency due by Friday night at midnight, or else my computer will turn back into a pumpkin.

If anyone needs me, I’ll be spelunking a cave with Plato. For hours.

Gotta love college.

Sweet Irony


There’s got to be some kind of Murphy’s Law of writing. Writers can pour their hearts and souls into a piece and have it rejected pointblank, sent back from the publishing house with a terse form letter and the ink still wet. But then a writer could cough out an essay they consider hardly worth reading, yet everyone who reads it loves it and somehow he ends up getting syndicated in an Anne-of-Avonlea-ish turn of events. Go figure.

Let me offer a hypothetical example: let’s say there’s a hypothetical amateur blogger who tries to write a new post every day, despite her hypothetically busy schedule. Let’s also say that she has managed to keep up so far, even if she posts pointless hypothetical drivel, such as ramblings about dormitory life or blurbs about the antics of her hypothetical new kitten. And we’ll also assume that occasionally she has time to really work hard on a post, to make it something organized, clear, meaningful, and sparklingly witty. In our hypothetical situation, she posts these works of Irma Bombeck-esque genius and watches her blog stats all day long, hoping for encouraging hypothetical comments. Unfortunately for our hypothetical blogger, she gets little to no feedback, save from her parents, who for whatever reason thinks that everything she does is clever.

Then one day, when our hypothetical blogger has no time whatsoever to write anything meaningful, she slaps out a post that isn’t even a post: all she does is ask her readers to leave a joke in the comments. (This is all completely hypothetical, of course.) And what happens? She gets a new record of 140 hits on her blog in one day, that’s what happens.

Go figure.

In any case, I’ve formulated the Rambler’s Law: The amount of effort you put into your writing is inversely proportionate to the amount of feedback you will get. At least if you’re a blogger.

Shakespearean Pun


So I was sitting at my workstation, minding my own sweet business, when a parade of my coworkers came giggling into the circulation area. “Brittanie” (names changed to protect the innocent) a smile as big as Texas spread across her face, led the gaggle of library girls, holding aloft a blue cleaning rag. When she reached my chair, she held out her hands. I looked into her cupped palms and saw a tiny ball of grey fur no bigger than a pebble nestled in the rag. I gasped and let out a long “Awwwwwwww!”

“We found a baby mouse in the 700’s section!” she exclaimed. I heard light tittering from the back of the parade. I reached out my index finger and gave the creature a scratch between its tiny, delicate ears.

As a child, I was fascinated by animals. Someone had once given me a thick book on animals, and I poured over every page. When I went to the Smithsonian as a 10-year-old, I bought a guide to mammals as a souvenir. While I didn’t read every entry, I got fairly good at identifying different species based on appearance, even species that have very similar features. Except for one rather embarrassing incident where I misidentified an African wild dog as a hyena (there’s a huge difference, and the wilds dog was a little offended), I can usually identify (and list an inordinate amount of random facts about) all kinds of mammals.

At that moment, as I looked at the tiny grey fuzzball in Britanie’s hand, I knew for a fact that it was not a baby mouse.

“It’s a shrew,” I said, astounded. How on earth did a shrew get in the library?

“A what? What’s a shrew?”

“To the internet!” I exclaimed, and opened Firefox on the computer. I typed in “shrew” and got a long list of images of tiny mouselike creatures with long noses and longer tails.

My supervisor frowned. “But our little guy doesn’t look like that. Its nose isn’t that long.”

She was right. Its nose was short. But the shape of its head, the size of its ears—they just weren’t saying “mouse” to me. I typed in “baby shrew.” Every picture listed could have been a picture of the little dust bunny in the cleaning rag.

“Ha! It is a shrew. I’ve never seen one before!” My supervisor was delighted. Britanie gave the little guy a scratch behind the ears.

Someone piped up from the back of the crowd. “So now what do we do with it?”

The reply: “We tame it, of course!”

*No rodents were harmed in the making of this Shakespearean pun.



Do you have any idea how difficult it is to produce a sparklingly clever, outrageously funny blog post when you’re trying to keep a laoiavona vaoigehnkvsaas;dfwc kitten off the keyboard? Let me tell you, it’s not exactly aiviruyw87623af;a tiddlywinks. Especially when she’s being so confoundedly cute that you don’t want to take your eyes off her, fearful you should miss something adorable.

Despite our introduction of things ping pong balls and toy mice to her life, so far her plaything of choice is her tail, which she has yet to realize is actually attached to her behind. Her favorite place to be is on the back of my neck, but she’ll settle for my lap in a pinch. “No” is a new word, but she’s starting to figure out that a finger snap means she should stop doing whatever she’s doing, such as nibbling on my thumb when she gets hungry. She’s the first kitten I’ve met of this size who would rather sit in my lap and be petted than play (read: get into trouble). I keep putting her back on the floor so she can explore and play, but she’ll sit at my feet and mew until I pick her up and put her back on my lap, where she is now contentedly asleep. I have a feeling she wasn’t used to much love wherever she was before my dad found her.

She got a bath last night. Didn’t put up a fuss at all, aside from a few squeaky mews at the beginning. I didn’t know so much dirt could come off of so small a kitten. She seems much happier now that she’s clean.

We have kept her presence (mostly) a secret from Spot and Dot. The have both smelled her presence, both on my clothes and from under my bathroom door. Spot seems indifferent, but Dot is terrified and won’t even go upstairs anymore. Dot reacts to new things the way a democrat reacts to a scandal—a lot of growling followed by utter denial. Especially if the new thing sounds and smells like competition. We had thought that Spot would have the biggest problem with the kitten, but so far, so good.

Her purr is about 10 times her size, and her meow is half. Her ears take up most of her head, and when she lets them droop, she looks like a fuzzy version of Yoda. She’s developed a habit of standing between my feet while I brush my teeth, especially if I happen to have a long skirt on that she can get lost in. Whenever she sees her reflection, she thinks it’s another kitten and wants to play. Maybe, just maybe, she misses all of the brothers and sisters that she left behind.

No, she doesn’t have a name. We just call her “Kitten,” “Fluffball,” “Fuzzbucket,” or “Troublemaker.” If we name her, she’ll have to stay. Yeah. No way we’re going to let ourselves get attached. No siree. Not at all.

Faux Pas


To make up for the utter lack of risibility in today’s earlier post, I thought I’d give you all a joke that I found on the interwebs:

Bob was in trouble. He forgot his wedding anniversary. His wife wasn’t too happy.

She told him “Tomorrow morning, I expect to find a gift in the driveway that goes from 0 to 200 in 6 seconds AND IT BETTER BE THERE !!”

The next morning he got up early and left for work. When his wife woke up, she looked out the window and sure enough there was a box gift-wrapped in the middle of the driveway.

Confused, the wife put on her robe and ran out to the driveway, brought the box back in the house.

She opened it and found a brand new bathroom scale.

Bob has been missing since Friday.


No, I didn't take this picture. I'm not awesome enough to work for Peter Jackson.

Even wizards love 'em.

Everything I learned about puns, I learned from my dad. And, like most of the important things I learned from my dad, I learned them while sitting in the back seat of our car.

My family and I have always spent our road trips playing word games. One of my favorites was punning with my dad in the form of a long dialogue. For example:

Me, pointing out of the car window: “Look, a fallen tree.”

Dad: “Eh, it was aspen for it.”

Me: “Oh, Daddy, that’s a horrible oak.”

Dad: “You’re barking up the wrong tree, here.”

Me: “Dad, these puns aren’t as poplar as you think they are.”

Dad: “It wouldn’t hurt you to branch out every once in a while.”

Me: “Leaf me alone, would you?”

Dad: “Sweetie, puns need to be a maple in any writer’s literary diet.”

Me, dubious: “That’s a bit of a stretch, there, Dad.”

Dad: “I know.” [He grins at me in the rear view mirror]  “No need for it to become a root of bitterness, though, Sweetie!”

Me: [Bangs head against the head rest and sighs, then laughs hysterically.]

Family bonding at its finest, right there. You should hear all of the ones we can come up with for eggs.

Of course, why would I want to crack a yolk like that?

Groaning yet? Good.