Friar's Club Encyclopedia of Jokes

by Barry Dougherty

  —A RIVAL PRODUCER, OBSERVING THE CROWD

  AT LOUIS B. MAYER’S FUNERAL

  If you don’t go to people’s funerals, they won’t come to yours.

  A friend of mine willed her body to science, but science is contesting the will.

  —JOEY ADAMS

  When old Mr. O’Leary died, an elaborate wake was planned. In preparation, Mrs. O’Leary called the undertaker aside for a private little talk. “Please be sure to secure his toupee to his head very securely. No one but I knew he was bald,” she confided, “and he’d never rest in peace if anyone found out at this point. But our friends from the old country are sure to hold his hands and touch his head before they’re through paying their last respects.”

  “Rest assured, Mrs. O’Leary,” comforted the undertaker. “I’ll fix it so that toupee will never come off.”

  Sure enough, the day of the wake, the old-timers were giving O’Leary’s ancient corpse quite a going-over, but the toupee stayed firmly in place. At the end of the day, a delighted Mrs. O’Leary offered the undertaker an extra hundred dollars for handling the matter so professionally.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly accept your money,” protested the undertaker. “What’s a few nails?”

  There’s a funeral procession with two hearses, and behind the two hearses is a guy with a vicious dog and behind him about a hundred guys. As they’re all passing through town, a guy steps off the curb and asks the guy with the dog what’s going on.

  “My dog killed my wife and my mother-in-law,” was the answer.

  “Can I borrow the dog?” the guy asks.

  “Get in line.”

  —HENNY YOUNGMAN

  G

  Gambling

  Mrs. Fisher, the sixth-grade teacher, tells the class that today they’re going to have a spelling bee. Instructing the first kid to stand up, she asks, “Robert, what does your father do for a living? Say it nice and clearly, and then spell it out.”

  “My father’s a baker,” answers Robert. “B-A-K-E-R-R.”

  “That’s not quite right, Robert. Try again,” chides Mrs. Fisher gently.

  “B-A . . .” says Robert, thinking hard, “K-E-R.”

  “Very good. Now, Cecily?”

  “Doctor. D-O-C-T-O-R,” Cecily says smugly and sits down.

  “Very good. Herbie?”

  Herbie stands up and says, “Shipbuilder. S-H-I-T—”

  “No, Herbie,” interrupts Mrs. Fisher. “Try again.”

  “Ship . . . builder. S-H-I-T—”

  “No, no, no. Go to the blackboard and write it out and you’ll see your mistake.”

  As Herbie heads toward the front of the class, Mrs. Fisher turns to the next child, Lenny, who jumps up and says, “My father’s a bookie. That’s B-double O-K-I-E, and I’ll lay you six to one that that dope puts ‘shit’ on the board.”

  If there was no action around, he would play solitaire—and bet against himself.

  —GROUCHO MARX, ABOUT HIS BROTHER CHICO (ATTRIBUTED)

  We spend $48 million in lottery tickets. You can’t trust us with our money. “How you planning for your retirement?”

  “Powerball.”

  —WANDA SYKES

  Gambling is a sure way of getting nothing for something.

  —NICK THE GREEK

  Barry used to supplement his income by gambling at poker, joining games wherever he happened to find himself. And he thought he’d seen it all, until he happened into a game in a little town in Tennessee and found himself seated next to a German shepherd. A few hands later, the dog drew a straight flush and collected the jackpot.

  “Unbelievable,” exclaimed Barry. “I’ve played plenty of poker in my day but I never imagined I’d see a dog win at poker.”

  “Ah, we usually wipe him out,” said an old geezer at the table with a dismissive snort. “Every time he gets a good hand, he wags his tail.”

  Las Vegas is the only town in the country where you can have a good time without enjoying yourself.

  —JOE E. LEWIS, ACCORDING TO ROBERT MERRILL

  Bernice used to nag her husband constantly because he just sat around the house all weekend watching television, checking out the ball games, and drinking beer. “Sunday’s the only day of the week you could actually spend a little quality time with your daughter, Lloyd, and instead she just watches a couch potato in action,” she complained week after week. So Bernice was astonished to come home one Saturday at dinnertime and hear little Amy chirp happily, “Mommy, guess what? Daddy took me to the zoo today, and we saw lots of animals!”

  “No kidding?”

  “And guess what?” continued the kid enthusiastically. “One of them paid ten to one!”

  The compulsive gambler walked into a gay bar, ordered a drink, and struck up a conversation with a fellow at the bar. When his companion went to take a leak, the gambler turned to the guy on the other side of him and said boldly, “I bet you fifty dollars you’ve got terrible hemorrhoids.”

  Knowing this wasn’t the case, the man readily agreed to the bet, stood up, and pulled down his pants. The gambler looked and looked, didn’t find a single hemorrhoid, promptly handed over the fifty dollars, and headed for the men’s room. The winner sat back down on his bar stool and delightedly recounted the story to his friend on his return.

  To his surprise, his friend paled. “That son-of-a-bitch!” he cried. “Just ten minutes ago he bet me a hundred dollars he’d have you drop your pants in the middle of the bar!”

  A racing tout was complaining to Joe that he hadn’t won a single race either with or for a wealthy sucker. “He gives me a thousand dollars a race to bet for him,” he cried, “and I’ve given him twenty-three straight losers.”

  “G-g-g-get away from that b-bum!” snarled Frisco. “H-he’s unlucky for you.”

  —JOEY FRISCO, AS TOLD TO GOODMAN ACE

  Did you hear about the moron who lost fifty dollars on the football game?

  Twenty-five dollars on the game, and twenty-five dollars on the instant replay.

  Harry walks into work one Monday morning with a huge grin on his face.

  One of his co-workers says, “Why are you so happy?”

  Harry says, “I went to Bingo for the first time in my life this weekend and I won a thousand bucks.”

  A week later, Harry walks into work on Monday morning and he’s skipping down the hall, high-fiving everyone.

  One of his co-workers says, “You win at Bingo again?”

  Harry says, “No, no, it’s better than that. I bought my first lottery ticket this weekend and I won ten grand. I’m feeling so damn lucky that I think I’m going to ask that new Indian girl in Accounting out on a date.”

  The next Monday morning Harry is doing cartwheels down the hall.

  One of the co-workers says, “Did you win another lottery?”

  Harry says, “No, no, it’s better than that. You know that Indian girl from Accounting I asked out? Well, we had a great time at dinner, so I invited her up to my apartment for drinks, we wind up in bed, and the next thing I know, she’s giving me the best blow job I ever had.”

  One of his co-workers says, “Man, are you frigging lucky.”

  Harry says, “No, no, it’s better than that. She’s blowing me, I look down, and you know that red dot on her forehead? I scratched it . . . and I won another ten grand.”

  Growing Up

  I’m on a plane and it hits me: when did it become a federal regulation that you have to have at least seven crying babies on every flight? I just want to know—Where are they going? Why are they on planes? They have no appointments, they were born just days ago. Our times are so hectic that babies are born and go, “I just popped out of the womb, I gotta dry up, learn to breathe—I’ll be on the two o’clock, it’s the best I can do.”

  —PAUL REISER

  An old woman is making dinner. In comes her fifteen-year-old grandson. “So, Sidney, what did you learn in school today?” she asks.

  “Today was sex edu
cation,” he replies.

  “Sex education. What’s that?” she asks.

  “We learn things like premature ejaculation, and all about penises and vaginas and—”

  She cuts him off, screaming, “Stop! I don’t ever want to hear that kind of language coming out of you! Now go up to your room. You’ll get no dinner tonight.”

  Thirty minutes later the kid’s mother comes home and asks, “Where’s Sidney?”

  “I sent him up to his room,” the old woman answers. “I asked him what he learned in school today and he said ‘sex education’ and I asked what that was and he started saying the filthiest words you ever heard. I can’t even repeat them.”

  “Ma, that’s what they teach the kids these days. You asked him a simple question and he gave you an honest answer.”

  The old woman feels bad now. “I didn’t realize,” she says. “I’ll go upstairs and get him and bring him down to dinner myself.” So she goes up to his room. “When she opens his door, she sees him in the corner masturbating.

  “Sidney,” she says, “when you’re finished with your homework. . . .”

  —NORM CROSBY

  The Peace Corps is a sort of Howard Johnson on the main drag into maturity.

  —PAUL THEROUX

  I worry about my kid dating these days. Kids go out and they have to worry about things like herpes and AIDS. I want my son to meet an old-fashioned girl—one with gonorrhea.

  —NORM CROSBY

  Gullibility

  A couple and a single man were shipwrecked on a desert island. It didn’t take long for the single guy to get pretty horny, and finally he comes up with an idea for getting into the wife’s pants. Climbing way up a tall palm tree, he hollers back down to the couple, “Hey, y’all, quit fucking down there!” The husband looks over at his wife—who’s standing ten feet away—and says, “What the hell’s he talking about?”

  This goes on for several hours, until the married man is overcome with curiosity and decides to climb up the palm to see for himself what the other guy’s problem is. As he’s going up, the horny fellow jumps down to the beach, grabs the wife, and proceeds to screw her like crazy.

  The man finally reaches the top where the single guy had been, looks down, and says, “Goddamn if he wasn’t right—it does look like they’re fucking down there!”

  Miss DeAngelo was a none-too-bright girl who had moved to Hollywood with dreams of becoming a star. She didn’t find fame or glory, but she did encounter plenty of men willing to enjoy her plentiful charms, and eventually she found herself named in a divorce case.

  When it was her turn on the stand, the prosecutor came forward. “Miss DeAngelo, the wife of the defendant has identified you as the ‘other woman’ in her husband’s life. Now, do you admit that you went to the PriceRite Motel with this Mr. Evans?”

  “Well, yes,” acknowledged Miss DeAngelo with a sniff, “but I couldn’t help it.”

  “Couldn’t help it?” asked the lawyer derisively. “How’s that?”

  “Mr. Evans deceived me.”

  “Exactly what do you mean?”

  “See, when we signed in,” she explained, “he told the motel clerk I was his wife.”

  When the moron walked into the corner bar late one night, he was obviously steaming mad. He downed three shots before a friend came over and asked what was wrong.

  “It’s my wife, I can’t believe it. When I got home tonight she was lying in bed all hot and bothered, and it made me suspicious. So I looked around, and sure enough, there was a naked guy hiding behind the shower curtain. Can you beat it?”

  “Jesus. No wonder you’re so pissed off,” said his friend sympathetically.

  “Yeah, but that’s not all,” the furious man went on. “That son of a bitch in the shower, he lied his way out of it.”

  “I tell you, sir, America is a great country and I praise God that I came over,” the foreigner was expounding to a new acquaintance. “Where else, I ask you, could it happen that you could do a hard day’s work, then find yourself outside the gates, standing in the rain, waiting for the bus—”

  “You call that great?” queried the man next to him at the bar.

  “Ah, but wait now. A big black limousine pulls up and the boss opens the back door and says, ‘It’s a hell of a night to be out in the rain. “Why don’t you come in here and warm up?’ And when you’re inside, he says, ‘That coat’s awfully wet—let me buy you a new one, all right?’ And after he’s bought you a coat, he asks where you live and says, ‘That’s a long drive on a night like this, why not come to my house?’ So he takes you to his big mansion and gives you a big meal and a few drinks and a warm bed for the night and a hot breakfast and a ride back to work. I tell you, this is a great country. It would never happen to me in my country.”

  “And it happened to you here?” asked his acquaintance skeptically.

  “No. But it happened to my sister.”

  It was just before a critical offensive, and the troops were being issued their weapons. Lenski was last in line, and they handed out the last rifle to the man in front of him. Furious, Lenski shouted, “Hey, what about my gun?”

  “Listen, bud,” advised the munitions officer, “just keep your hands out in front of you as though you were holding one, and yell, ‘Bang! Bang!’”

  “You gotta be joking,” blustered Lenski. “You must be trying to get me killed!”

  ‘Trust me,” said the officer, sending Lenski out into the field with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  Pretty soon Lenski found himself in the thick of battle with a Russian infantryman advancing on him. Having little choice, he raised his hands, pointed at the soldier, and yelled, “Bang! Bang!” The Russian fell over, stone dead. This worked on about twenty Russians. Fired with confidence, Lenski returned to the munitions officer and asked about a bayonet.

  “Oh, we’re all out,” said the officer apologetically, “but if you just point with your index finger and scream, ‘Stab! Stab!’ you’ll get excellent results.”

  Out went Lenski into battle again, and soon he was surrounded by heaps of dead Russian soldiers. In fact, he thought he had wiped out the whole platoon and was just taking a breather when he saw a giant Russian coming toward him. Strutting forward, Lenski shouted, “Bang! Bang!”

  The Russian kept on coming.

  “Stab! Stab!” cried Lenski.

  The Russian kept on coming, right over Lenski, crushing him to a pulp.

  The last thing the unfortunate infantryman heard was the Russian muttering, “Tank, tank, tank. . . .”

  Guns

  We need guns. . . . Suppose a man comes home early and finds another man with his wife. What’s he supposed to do, poison him? How about suicide? Can you imagine trying to beat yourself to death with a stick?

  Let’s be objective about this. Guns are not the real problem. The real problem is bullets.

  —PAT PAULSEN

  Ditsey Baummortal went duck hunting with old Uncle George Terwilliger. A flock of ducks flew over head and Uncle George took a potshot at them and one fell down on the beach, dead.

  Ditsey walked over and looked at it. “Hey, Uncle George,” he said, “that was a waste of ammunition to shoot that duck. The fall alone would have killed it.”

  —“SENATOR” ED FORD

  Two strangers met on a golf course and the conversation came around to their occupations. The first man said he was in real estate; in fact, he owned a condominium complex that was just visible in the distance.

  The second man said he was a professional assassin. His new acquaintance was skeptical until the man took some pipes out of his golf bag and assembled them into a rifle.

  “I’ll be damned,” said the first guy.

  “The best part of this rifle is the high-power scope,” confided the assassin, handing him the gun.

  “You’re right,” said the first man. “I can see into my apartment with it. There’s my wife . . . and she’s in there with another man!” Furious, he
turned to the assassin and asked how much he charged for his services, to which the reply was, “A thousand dollars a bullet.”

  The man said, “I want to buy two bullets. I want you to kill my wife with the first one and blow the guy’s balls off with the second.”

  Agreeing to the offer, the assassin looked through his scope and took aim. Then he lifted his head and said, “If you’ll hang on a minute, I can save you a thousand dollars.”

  Why do I need a gun license? It’s only for use around the house.

  —CHARLES ADDAMS

  A cowboy sauntered into a saloon and swaggered toward the bar. Before reaching the bar, he pulled out his six shooter, quickly aimed at a hat laying on the bar, and fired, causing the hat to jump ten feet into the air. “With incredible precision, the cowboy fired five more shots, each one sending the hat flying in a different direction. “With a final twirl, the cowboy put his pistol back into the holster.

  Obviously impressed, the barman paused from cleaning a glass and said, “Mighty fine shootin’, pardner.” The cowboy smiled and gently tapped his gun.

  “Now if I was you,” continued the barman, “I’d file down the foresight and the trigger, and coat the body of the gun with ketchup.”

  “Oh?” said the cowboy, “Will that make me shoot better?”

  “Nope,” said the barman, “but that hat belongs to Mad Dog Johnson, and as soon as he gets back from the John, he is going to shove that pistol right down your throat.”

  The NRA is attempting to lift the ban on machine-gun sales. Well, as an avid hunting enthusiast, I’ve been hoping to buy a fully automatic Uzi. One thing about a machine gun, it really takes the guesswork out of duck hunting.

  —MARK RUSSELL

  H

  Handicaps

  If blind people wear sunglasses, why don’t deaf people wear ear-muffs?

  —SPANKY (STEVE MCFARLIN)

  A husband reading a newspaper says to his wife, “You know, honey, I think there might be some real merit to what this article says, that the intelligence of a father often proves a stumbling block to the son.”