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Dad, Bad, Jokes...

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Deleted member 43264

Okay, so in my household I'm usually accused of telling bad, dad jokes. I personally think they're hilarious, but I usually bomb.
So I thought I'd throw this out there to get some new and/or good material to try out at home. So feel free to share your best/funniest stuff.

Anyways, here is one of my favorites, though it always bombs with my wife and kid (and yes, I retell the same jokes with the same results):

Q: "What's the difference between the people of Dubai and the people of Abu Dabi?"

Pre-punchline Pause

A: "The people from Dubai don't like the Flintstones....but the people from Abu Dabi Doo..."

Get it?! I'm cracking myself up right now....
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TheHime

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Q: “What is an astronaut’s favorite key on a keyboard?"

Pre-punchline Pause

A: "The Space key”
 

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Deleted member 43264

Q: “How do flat-earther’s travel?"

Pre-punchline Pause

A: "On a plane”
I will have to admit, it took me a second or two, but I got it! That kinda reminds me of another joke, which I will probably tell wrong....but anyways:

Q: “What's the temperature of every corner in a room?"

Pre-punchline Pause

A: "90°'s”

Gotta love nerd/geek jokes.
 
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Deleted member 43264

Q: “What is an astronaut’s favorite key on a keyboard?"

Pre-punchline Pause

A: "The Space key”
That's a good one. I might even get my kid to smile at that one. He really thinks I'm not funny unless I do something dumb like run into the sliding glass door while it's closed or spit on my Jeep window because I though it was open.
 

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Knock-knock...

Who's there?...

I ate mop:
 

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Q: “What's the temperature of every corner in a room?"

Pre-punchline Pause

A: "90°'s”

Gotta love nerd/geek jokes.
It's cold outside, and we're working on getting the heat balanced between our bedroom and the baby's. Meanwhile, the sun is glaring and I'm sitting in a corner by a window where it's quite warm. My wife was in here chatting with me about something, and I used this modified to fit the situation. "It's awfully warm in this corner of the room; must be about 90 degrees! (moves finger through the air in a right angle)". Shameless theft of shamelessness.

Here's one of a different flavor of awful:

A newlywed couple, Sam and Deborah Hill, were off on their honeymoon. They'd always wanted to tour Europe by train, but couldn't afford the western leg of the tour. Eastern Europe has plenty of sights to see and memories to be made though, and they made the best of it. Prague to Bucharest by way of Chisnau. All the... greats. En route from Bucharest to Warsaw, their rental car broke down. The "Ford Focus or similar" refused to start after lunch. The rental car company, true to form, was of little to no help. Rescue wouldn't be available in the Transylvania region of Romania until the following day. Not to be deterred from having a pleasant vacation, they pulled out their handy translation book, asked around to the locals what "interesting" things they might do to kill a day.

"Interesting" might not have been the best choice of verbiage. They were told, at least they thought, that a walk through the woods outside of town was nice and scenic, and they set off the following morning after a leisurely brunch. The woods were clearly old growth. Older than old growth even. It seemed that most of the European countryside had been transformed at some point in history or another as the locals cut down entire forests for firewood and lumber or to clear land for agriculture, but these woods were truly undisturbed. It was marvelous, if a bit creepy.

They took an hour around noon for a picnic lunch in the middle of a clearing. Mr. Hill had carefully walked all over and throughout the meadow to find a flat dry spot, then matted down the tall grass so their picnic blanket would sit relatively flat. They had met an old woman in town who was delighted to hear of their recent nuptials, and insisted she allow her to make them a picnic lunch of her favorite local delicacy. After enjoying their carefully packed, if a bit odd looking to their western eyes, Romanian fare and bottle of wine, they stood up to go back the way they came and realized that for all of Sam's trampling paths through the grass, they couldn't tell from which way they had come! They circled the perimeter of the woods, and identified two possible ways they could have come in. Sam, being the manly man he was, made the decisive call to take the clearer looking path, and off they went back into the primeval woods.

Before long, it became clear this was not the way they had come. It was, however, a much better worn path. Surely it must lead somewhere. Besides, it was late afternoon, and they would surely not be able to get all the way back to town before nightfall the way they had come. So they soldiered on.

As the sun began to set, they saw off in the distance a castle up on a hillside. Lights were on, and the path began to zag its way up the hill in its direction. Clearly they had made many mistakes to this point, but attempting to reach this castle seemed like the best of a series of bad options. Making matters worse, Mrs. Hill was feeling quite ill. It appeared the Romanian cuisine wasn't agreeing with her, and in a bad way. Mr. Hill wasn't doing too great himself, but was at least able to soldier on in a way Deborah was increasingly failing to do.

Mr. Hill was doing his best to carry Mrs. Hill, and she was mumbling incoherently. The cultural baggage of a castle in the Transylvanian hillside was playing tricks on her mind. Sam was doing his best to keep it together, but every shadow along their way had a foreboding way of seeming to reach toward them as if what was left of the sun's light were coming at them from both sides of the darkening path.

The door to the castle was much larger than it appeared from a distance. Easily 12 feet tall, oak held by archaic wrought iron straps. The brass gargoyle with a heavy ring in its mouth serving as a knocker didn't do Sam's mood any favors. As if to drive their bad luck home, Mrs. Hill had fallen silent. He wasn't sure if it was out of some terrified awe at the structure looming over them, or if she had completely lost consciousness.

Sam took the knocker in his free hand, and lifted it. Either it was much heavier than it looked, or he was much weaker than he realized.

BANG!

He could hear the echoes traverse the stone surfaces inside.

Bang!

Less loud this time. It was somehow even heavier the second time.

Bang.

It was all he could muster. Hopefully who, or whatever, was inside heard, because he didn't have a third knock in him. The echoes still reverberated somehow, as if the ancient fortress of a building were generating them itself out of malice.

Mr. Hill carefully lowered Deborah to the ground. He needed to sit. Just as he had unburdened himself of her weight, the door began to open. The hinges clearly suffering disuse creaked and sputtered as if they were cackling at their misfortune. A dim light obscured by a short, stocky shadow appeared, and a hunched figure stepped out into the darkness of a premature dusk. The last hour of the sunset had happened far more quickly than it should have, and stars were visible through a hole in the low hanging clouds back in the direction they had come.

"May I help you?" croaked the dark man. His voice seemingly as disused as the door, but his English impeccable. Somehow he knew they were no Romanian townsfolk.

"I'm Sam Hill, and this is Deborah. My wife and I are lost, and... " Mr. Hill said. His voice was a bit hoarse, like something was stuck in his throat. He hadn't expected anything but his usual baritone, and the raspiness of it surprised him.

"We are quite ill... and... We need to get... Where are we? Do you have a phone?" It was all he could do to stand back up.

The disfigured man in the doorway muttered something agreeable, and offered his hand, and led Mr. Hill inside into the parlor, then went back for Mrs. Hill. Sam sat down on a low bench that looked nearly as old as the walls surrounding him. He slumped over, trying to catch his breath and stave off an increasingly powerful urge to regurgitate whatever the old woman back in the village had prepared for them.

When he reappeared, a look of concern was on his face. "Your beloved is not well, Mr. Hill. Her breathing is quite shallow, and her skin is damp and cold. Have no fear though, my master is a doctor, and there is a well equipped laboratory in the basement of this building. I shall take her down to where she might receive care, and fetch the doctor."

Mr. Hill was simultaneously shocked and nonplussed. His head was spinning, and he knew Deborah was worse. Besides, what could he do but agree. "OK" was all he could get out.

His wife and the strange man disappeared. He could hear their footsteps echoing through the hallway outside the entry to the parlor, followed by a door opening not far, and the slower and heavier footsteps that come with walking down stairs, only one foot heavier than the other due to the man's uneven gait and the weight of his charge.

Sam put his head in his hands and then between his knees. He hoped that when he did hurl, he could avoid the fine rug under his feet. As generous as this man had been to take them in, he would hate to punish him for the kindness.

The next thing he knew, he was in a different room, laying on a cold hard table. A bright light shown down from above him, blinding him to everything above a certain level. He looked below that level and to his side. There lay Deborah on her own table. The recent Mrs. Hill looking soon to be the late Mrs. Hill. The strange man was busily rummaging through a drawer with one hand, and holding a glass jar and a rag in the other.

"Master!" He yelled toward the open door to the room. "Please hurry! I fear for this woman's life!"

Darkness.

Some time had passed, and the master had made it down. He was busily looming over Deborah. His back was to Sam, and he couldn't see what the man was doing to his wife. The hunched man saw that Sam had come to from the far side of the table Deborah was laying on, and started to walk around the table in his direction.

Darkness.

"I do not believe there is anything more I can do for this woman," said a deep and thickly accented voice. "She will not see the sunrise, and likely not the next hour. The man... He will surely follow. They are lost. I do not wish to be here when they pass, Fyodor. I shall be in the conservatory. I wish to console myself with music."

Dread. Despair. And darkness. Then nothing.

----

Fyodor stared into the middle distance. His evening had taken a dark turn. These two people, the Hills, appeared at his door as if out of nowhere, then just as suddenly died in the basement of his master's manor. Master had left. Gone to the conservatory to play his organ. A century old pump driven monstrosity that belonged in a church. May have come from one once upon a time during some uprising or revolution.

There was nothing to do about the fresh corpses laid out before him until morning when the undertaker down in the village would return to his place of business to receive a phone call. At least he could tidy up and bring the master's laboratory back to its pre-Hill state of cleanliness. He began to place the instruments back in their drawers. Carefully cleaning each one before returning it to its designated place within its dedicated drawer.

Then, wafting through the stone lined halls, echoing eerily came the haunting music of the master's organ.

----

Mr. Hill's consciousness faintly registered this. The music, and the shuffling, brushing, and clinking of the hunched man, Fyodor... He had never said his name, but the dark accented man had called him that.

The music...

Slowly Sam's eyes opened. He saw the hunched man busy at something on the far side of his room.

The music swelled in volume.

Deborah was between the man and Sam where he had last seen her. Her eyes also opened. She looked as confused as he felt.

The organ's melody rose and fell. Sounding faintly familiar, yet entirely strange at the same time.

Mr. Hill noticed that Mrs. Hill's face was no longer the pale flushed white she had been before. The color had returned to her cheeks. She looked better than she had in some time, in fact. Then he realized he also felt surprisingly... fine! Great actually!

The strange yet familiar tune modulated to a different key, crescendoing to a fugue.

He sat up, as did Mrs. Hill. They were both confused, yet almost bursting with a joy and energy that seemed impossible given their previous state.

The music played on.

----

Fyodor heard a shuffle behind him, and turned around to see what had fallen. His jaw dropped when he saw nothing had fallen, but the Hills had in fact risen!

The organ was pumping its complex timbre through the rooms and halls. Oblivious to the miracle or curse that was unfolding before him.

How could this be? This couple had died. They were dead. No breath. No pulse. Their bodies had begun to cool!

The music stopped. Both of the people in before him collapsed back to their prostrate and dead positions on the operating tables.

A moment passed. Silence fell throughout the halls as the echoes died. Fyodor held his breath. Then a new, more somber tune began to play. Both corpses were again reanimated, but appeared healthy and hale. Fyodor wasn't sure if he should be terrified or overjoyed, but either way, the music must continue. The Hills fates depended on it.

He burst out of the laboratory, and leapt up the stone steps as fast as his hobbled legs would carry him. Into the hallway, and to the great hall.

"Master! Master!" His voice seemed to fall flat. Unable to carry through the tidal wave unleashed by the organ's great pipes.

His mind flashed back to the laboratory. What might the Hills be thinking? Surely they were as confused as he was, but as long as the music played, it seemed they stood a chance. They were alive! "Master! Master!" He was rapidly running out of steam. Through the dining hall. Through the kitchen. A shortcut to the conservatory intended only for the servants.

"Master!" He huffed. "Master!" He hoped he would be heard, but that the music would still play.

Finally, he burst through the heavy oak door of the conservatory. "Master!" The organist turned suddenly to see what was the matter.

"Master! The Hills are alive with the sound of music!"



 

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OP
OP

Deleted member 43264

It's cold outside, and we're working on getting the heat balanced between our bedroom and the baby's. Meanwhile, the sun is glaring and I'm sitting in a corner by a window where it's quite warm. My wife was in here chatting with me about something, and I used this modified to fit the situation. "It's awfully warm in this corner of the room; must be about 90 degrees! (moves finger through the air in a right angle)". Shameless theft of shamelessness.

Here's one of a different flavor of awful:

A newlywed couple, Sam and Deborah Hill, were off on their honeymoon. They'd always wanted to tour Europe by train, but couldn't afford the western leg of the tour. Eastern Europe has plenty of sights to see and memories to be made though, and they made the best of it. Prague to Bucharest by way of Chisnau. All the... greats. En route from Bucharest to Warsaw, their rental car broke down. The "Ford Focus or similar" refused to start after lunch. The rental car company, true to form, was of little to no help. Rescue wouldn't be available in the Transylvania region of Romania until the following day. Not to be deterred from having a pleasant vacation, they pulled out their handy translation book, asked around to the locals what "interesting" things they might do to kill a day.

"Interesting" might not have been the best choice of verbiage. They were told, at least they thought, that a walk through the woods outside of town was nice and scenic, and they set off the following morning after a leisurely brunch. The woods were clearly old growth. Older than old growth even. It seemed that most of the European countryside had been transformed at some point in history or another as the locals cut down entire forests for firewood and lumber or to clear land for agriculture, but these woods were truly undisturbed. It was marvelous, if a bit creepy.

They took an hour around noon for a picnic lunch in the middle of a clearing. Mr. Hill had carefully walked all over and throughout the meadow to find a flat dry spot, then matted down the tall grass so their picnic blanket would sit relatively flat. They had met an old woman in town who was delighted to hear of their recent nuptials, and insisted she allow her to make them a picnic lunch of her favorite local delicacy. After enjoying their carefully packed, if a bit odd looking to their western eyes, Romanian fare and bottle of wine, they stood up to go back the way they came and realized that for all of Sam's trampling paths through the grass, they couldn't tell from which way they had come! They circled the perimeter of the woods, and identified two possible ways they could have come in. Sam, being the manly man he was, made the decisive call to take the clearer looking path, and off they went back into the primeval woods.

Before long, it became clear this was not the way they had come. It was, however, a much better worn path. Surely it must lead somewhere. Besides, it was late afternoon, and they would surely not be able to get all the way back to town before nightfall the way they had come. So they soldiered on.

As the sun began to set, they saw off in the distance a castle up on a hillside. Lights were on, and the path began to zag its way up the hill in its direction. Clearly they had made many mistakes to this point, but attempting to reach this castle seemed like the best of a series of bad options. Making matters worse, Mrs. Hill was feeling quite ill. It appeared the Romanian cuisine wasn't agreeing with her, and in a bad way. Mr. Hill wasn't doing too great himself, but was at least able to soldier on in a way Deborah was increasingly failing to do.

Mr. Hill was doing his best to carry Mrs. Hill, and she was mumbling incoherently. The cultural baggage of a castle in the Transylvanian hillside was playing tricks on her mind. Sam was doing his best to keep it together, but every shadow along their way had a foreboding way of seeming to reach toward them as if what was left of the sun's light were coming at them from both sides of the darkening path.

The door to the castle was much larger than it appeared from a distance. Easily 12 feet tall, oak held by archaic wrought iron straps. The brass gargoyle with a heavy ring in its mouth serving as a knocker didn't do Sam's mood any favors. As if to drive their bad luck home, Mrs. Hill had fallen silent. He wasn't sure if it was out of some terrified awe at the structure looming over them, or if she had completely lost consciousness.

Sam took the knocker in his free hand, and lifted it. Either it was much heavier than it looked, or he was much weaker than he realized.

BANG!

He could hear the echoes traverse the stone surfaces inside.

Bang!

Less loud this time. It was somehow even heavier the second time.

Bang.

It was all he could muster. Hopefully who, or whatever, was inside heard, because he didn't have a third knock in him. The echoes still reverberated somehow, as if the ancient fortress of a building were generating them itself out of malice.

Mr. Hill carefully lowered Deborah to the ground. He needed to sit. Just as he had unburdened himself of her weight, the door began to open. The hinges clearly suffering disuse creaked and sputtered as if they were cackling at their misfortune. A dim light obscured by a short, stocky shadow appeared, and a hunched figure stepped out into the darkness of a premature dusk. The last hour of the sunset had happened far more quickly than it should have, and stars were visible through a hole in the low hanging clouds back in the direction they had come.

"May I help you?" croaked the dark man. His voice seemingly as disused as the door, but his English impeccable. Somehow he knew they were no Romanian townsfolk.

"I'm Sam Hill, and this is Deborah. My wife and I are lost, and... " Mr. Hill said. His voice was a bit hoarse, like something was stuck in his throat. He hadn't expected anything but his usual baritone, and the raspiness of it surprised him.

"We are quite ill... and... We need to get... Where are we? Do you have a phone?" It was all he could do to stand back up.

The disfigured man in the doorway muttered something agreeable, and offered his hand, and led Mr. Hill inside into the parlor, then went back for Mrs. Hill. Sam sat down on a low bench that looked nearly as old as the walls surrounding him. He slumped over, trying to catch his breath and stave off an increasingly powerful urge to regurgitate whatever the old woman back in the village had prepared for them.

When he reappeared, a look of concern was on his face. "Your beloved is not well, Mr. Hill. Her breathing is quite shallow, and her skin is damp and cold. Have no fear though, my master is a doctor, and there is a well equipped laboratory in the basement of this building. I shall take her down to where she might receive care, and fetch the doctor."

Mr. Hill was simultaneously shocked and nonplussed. His head was spinning, and he knew Deborah was worse. Besides, what could he do but agree. "OK" was all he could get out.

His wife and the strange man disappeared. He could hear their footsteps echoing through the hallway outside the entry to the parlor, followed by a door opening not far, and the slower and heavier footsteps that come with walking down stairs, only one foot heavier than the other due to the man's uneven gait and the weight of his charge.

Sam put his head in his hands and then between his knees. He hoped that when he did hurl, he could avoid the fine rug under his feet. As generous as this man had been to take them in, he would hate to punish him for the kindness.

The next thing he knew, he was in a different room, laying on a cold hard table. A bright light shown down from above him, blinding him to everything above a certain level. He looked below that level and to his side. There lay Deborah on her own table. The recent Mrs. Hill looking soon to be the late Mrs. Hill. The strange man was busily rummaging through a drawer with one hand, and holding a glass jar and a rag in the other.

"Master!" He yelled toward the open door to the room. "Please hurry! I fear for this woman's life!"

Darkness.

Some time had passed, and the master had made it down. He was busily looming over Deborah. His back was to Sam, and he couldn't see what the man was doing to his wife. The hunched man saw that Sam had come to from the far side of the table Deborah was laying on, and started to walk around the table in his direction.

Darkness.

"I do not believe there is anything more I can do for this woman," said a deep and thickly accented voice. "She will not see the sunrise, and likely not the next hour. The man... He will surely follow. They are lost. I do not wish to be here when they pass, Fyodor. I shall be in the conservatory. I wish to console myself with music."

Dread. Despair. And darkness. Then nothing.

----

Fyodor stared into the middle distance. His evening had taken a dark turn. These two people, the Hills, appeared at his door as if out of nowhere, then just as suddenly died in the basement of his master's manor. Master had left. Gone to the conservatory to play his organ. A century old pump driven monstrosity that belonged in a church. May have come from one once upon a time during some uprising or revolution.

There was nothing to do about the fresh corpses laid out before him until morning when the undertaker down in the village would return to his place of business to receive a phone call. At least he could tidy up and bring the master's laboratory back to its pre-Hill state of cleanliness. He began to place the instruments back in their drawers. Carefully cleaning each one before returning it to its designated place within its dedicated drawer.

Then, wafting through the stone lined halls, echoing eerily came the haunting music of the master's organ.

----

Mr. Hill's consciousness faintly registered this. The music, and the shuffling, brushing, and clinking of the hunched man, Fyodor... He had never said his name, but the dark accented man had called him that.

The music...

Slowly Sam's eyes opened. He saw the hunched man busy at something on the far side of his room.

The music swelled in volume.

Deborah was between the man and Sam where he had last seen her. Her eyes also opened. She looked as confused as he felt.

The organ's melody rose and fell. Sounding faintly familiar, yet entirely strange at the same time.

Mr. Hill noticed that Mrs. Hill's face was no longer the pale flushed white she had been before. The color had returned to her cheeks. She looked better than she had in some time, in fact. Then he realized he also felt surprisingly... fine! Great actually!

The strange yet familiar tune modulated to a different key, crescendoing to a fugue.

He sat up, as did Mrs. Hill. They were both confused, yet almost bursting with a joy and energy that seemed impossible given their previous state.

The music played on.

----

Fyodor heard a shuffle behind him, and turned around to see what had fallen. His jaw dropped when he saw nothing had fallen, but the Hills had in fact risen!

The organ was pumping its complex timbre through the rooms and halls. Oblivious to the miracle or curse that was unfolding before him.

How could this be? This couple had died. They were dead. No breath. No pulse. Their bodies had begun to cool!

The music stopped. Both of the people in before him collapsed back to their prostrate and dead positions on the operating tables.

A moment passed. Silence fell throughout the halls as the echoes died. Fyodor held his breath. Then a new, more somber tune began to play. Both corpses were again reanimated, but appeared healthy and hale. Fyodor wasn't sure if he should be terrified or overjoyed, but either way, the music must continue. The Hills fates depended on it.

He burst out of the laboratory, and leapt up the stone steps as fast as his hobbled legs would carry him. Into the hallway, and to the great hall.

"Master! Master!" His voice seemed to fall flat. Unable to carry through the tidal wave unleashed by the organ's great pipes.

His mind flashed back to the laboratory. What might the Hills be thinking? Surely they were as confused as he was, but as long as the music played, it seemed they stood a chance. They were alive! "Master! Master!" He was rapidly running out of steam. Through the dining hall. Through the kitchen. A shortcut to the conservatory intended only for the servants.

"Master!" He huffed. "Master!" He hoped he would be heard, but that the music would still play.

Finally, he burst through the heavy oak door of the conservatory. "Master!" The organist turned suddenly to see what was the matter.

"Master! The Hills are alive with the sound of music!"



I read the whole thing...talk about build up. Loved the punch line though.
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