Secret jokes
Do you know what the secret is to have a smoking hot body?
Cremation.
Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of working girls. Call girls. Hookers. Prostitutes. And the association is a long one, going back to the very earliest legends which place St. Nick as a Greek bishop in Myra, Lycia in what is now the Turkish Mediterranean - three centuries after Christ.
Saint Nicholas is notable primarily for giving secretly to the poor, and supposedly the first to benefit were three young ladies whose poor father couldn't afford wedding or dowry to marry them off - destining them instead to a life of prostitution. St. Nick supposedly threw a bag of gold through the window to pay for the wedding but, by the third attempt, the poor father was watching to determine the identity of the anonymous benefactor. Santa outsmarted him by dropping the last bag of coins down the chimney.
So, whenever you see Santa, he always travels with his three favourite sex workers - who seemingly never grow old. On a quiet, still Christmas night you can even hear him call them.
Ho! Ho! Ho! And to all a good night.
There's a saying that goes, "Only gay men know how to dress." Of course they know how to dress! They were in the closet!
What do you call two lesbians in a closet? A liqueur cabinet.
Do you know what the secret is to have a smoking, hot body as a senior citizen?
Cremation.
When the US Army found Chinese soldiers selling secrets to China, they said, "Looks like we have some chinks in our armor."
What do you call two female lovers spying on the government?
Lesbionage.
Why don’t rappers tell secrets?
Because they always end up DROPPING it.
"John FK, he think he special car no top, everyone see like he on parade. Me, I stay hidden, secret style, no bullets find me. Much smar smarter, no? Scret lifestyle safety."
Joe Biden would’ve died in the Secret Service tackle. They would have been like, "Get down Mr. Presi-"
Do you think when the Secret Service heard the gunshot they were like, "Donald Duck"?
Donald Trump secretly admires Joe Biden. How do I know?
He attempts to imitate "Sleepy Joe" by falling asleep during his court cases and during part of the Republican National Convention!
Why don't rappers tell secrets?
Because they always spill the beats.
What do asses and secrets have in common?
Both are better when not leaked!
Blessed Brian, your secrets are safe with me... because I wasn’t listening when you told them.
The couple next door made a porn film.
They don’t know it yet.
What does it mean when a man has a dodgy past? It means he has skeletons in his closet.
What does it mean when a man likes Lana Del Rey better than Ed Sheeran? It means he has a closet full of women's leather pants (but no women in their dating history).
I went to see my dentist, and she warned me it was going to hurt. Then, she told me she was having an affair with my husband. Good news though...the cleaning didn't hurt.
In the realm of whispers and shadows, Where dreams dance on the edge of reality, There resides a peculiar soul, Known as Alexander Fisher.
With eyes that hold secrets untold, And a heart that beats to its own rhythm, He tiptoes through the night, On a quest to embrace the extraordinary.
His hands, delicate as a feather's touch, Reach out to the heavens above, Grasping at ethereal strands of wonder, In the form of vibrant, floating balloons.
With each step, the balloons whisper, Carrying tales of forgotten dreams, And the untamed yearnings of the heart, Alexander Fisher's silent companions.
He creeps through moonlit streets, An enigma in a world seeking answers, As the balloons trail behind him, Painting the night with magic's hues.
Together, they wander through the darkness, Where imagination blooms and thrives, In a delicate ballet of dreams, Alexander Fisher's fantastical symphony.
The world watches, captivated, By this balladeer of whimsical desires, As he weaves his spell, one balloon at a time, Enchanting souls with his ethereal art.
For in his delicate grasp, balloons become more, They transcend their earthly existence, Becoming vessels of hope and joy, Guiding hearts towards the realm of possibility.
Alexander Fisher, the dreamer, the poet, Creeps through life, a gentle force, With his balloons as his faithful companions, He reminds us to embrace the extraordinary.
In a world of feline folly, There lived a cat with a secret, A taste for adventure and mischief, And a love for KFC's golden treat.
With eyes like emerald jewels, And fur as black as night, This feline prowled the streets, In search of a savory delight.
Oh, how it yearned for chicken, Crispy and finger-lickin' good, But the cat knew it had to be sly, To satisfy its craving like it should.
Through alleyways it stealthily tiptoed, With nimble paws and a stealthy glide, Until it stumbled upon a secret, That made its hunger amplified.
A stash of KFC's golden eggs, Hidden away from prying eyes, An accidental treasure trove, A feast fit for a feline paradise.
With each stolen egg devoured, The cat's satisfaction grew, The taste of crispy breading, And juicy chicken, it knew.
Word soon spread of this food bandit, A legend of a cat so bold, Whispers echoed through the town, Of the one who stole the KFC gold.
But the cat with the KFC get eggs, Remained a mystery to all, A phantom of the night it became, Leaving no trace, no trail to recall.
And so, it continues its nightly quest, For chicken that satisfies its soul, The cat with the KFC get eggs, Forever on the prowl, never to be controlled.