Tale jokes
What’s the difference between 911 and an abortion?
With 911 there was a victim to tell the tale.
What’s the difference between a cancer patient and a British news reporter in the South?
They usually don’t live to tell the tale.
If you're ever bored, just punch an orphan.
What are they gonna tell their parents?
I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took a dick in the ass.
In the realm of words, I shall embark, To craft a verse, both bold and stark, Thomas Bulgin, a name that ignites, A tale of length and moist delights.
Free from the chains of structured rhyme, I wander through this realm, sublime, Thomas Bulgin, a phrase so strange, Evoking thoughts that rearrange.
Long, it stretches, like a winding road, Leading us to depths, yet to be bestowed, In syllables, it dances and it plays, A journey we embark, in myriad ways.
Moist, a word that teems with life, A touch of nature, amidst the strife, It whispers of raindrops on tender leaves, Of dew-kissed petals and gentle heaves.
Thomas Bulgin, a phrase so surreal, Unleashing emotions, that time cannot seal, In this short verse, I strive to convey, A glimpse of what these words might say.
So let us ponder, the mystery untold, Of Thomas Bulgin, both long and bold, For in the realm of poetry's sweet embrace, Even the unusual finds its rightful place.
If you bully a kid, bully an orphan.
What are they gonna do? Tell their parents?
My girlfriend wanted a marriage just like a fairy tale. Fair enough. I gave her a loaf of bread and left her in the forest with a rabid wolf.
Fork pierces the flesh. Guided by hunger's demand, Savoury feast waits.
Tines dig deep within, Seeking the sustenance craved, A mealtime delight.
Belly grumbles loud, Yearning for nourishment's touch, Fork answers the call.
Food on the platter, Fork dances with anticipation, To satiate hunger's plea.
Digestion begins, Fork's journey now complete, Nourishing the soul.
Why does the fork go? To bring joy to empty hearts, Satiating needs.
In the stomach's depths, Fork finds purpose and solace, A culinary bond.
With each mealtime tale, The fork carves memories deep, In stomachs it rests.
Why is it okay to hit orphans?
It's not like they can tell their parents.
Man 1: Hey, I heard you survived a school shooting. What was it like?
Man 2: People were screaming and running everywhere. I was only able to get a few of them.
My wife went to Niagara Falls and fell. She broke every bone in her body.
One year later, she recovered. She slipped on an orange peel and died.
What did one cheese say to the other cheese?
"Hello, it's a nice day, do you have any plans on what you're going to do?"... The other cheese was taken back by his politeness and friendliness, they agreed to meet again, and were soon married and lived happily ever after. Let this tale of the two cheeses inspire you to be a better person.
Two cows are grazing in a field.
One cow says to the other, "You ever worry about that mad cow disease?"
The other cow says, "Why would I care? I'm a helicopter!"
Motherhood is like a fairy tale, but in reverse. You start out in a beautiful ball gown and end up in stained rags cleaning up after little people.
I told a kid his dad is a magician because he disappeared and never came back home.
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.
The moment came. The starter dropped his red flag. "They're away!"
Not for one second did Agba need to hunt for Lath in that flying stream of horseflesh. He did not even look for the scarlet and white stripes of the jockey's body-coat. His eyes were fixed on the littlest horse, the littlest horse that got away to a bad start!
The field was far out in front. The big horses were whipping down the steep slope to Devil's Dyke, skimming along the running gap, leaping up the opposite bank and across a long flat stretch. They were beginning to bunch, making narrow gaps. Lath was coming up from behind. He began filling in the gaps. He went through them. He was a blob of watercolor, trickling along the green turf between the other colors.
For a brief second the horses were hidden by a clump of hawthorn trees. Agba's knees tightened. He felt Sham quiver beneath him, saw white flecks of sweat come out on his neck. It was well the grooms were there to hold them both!
The horses were coming around the trees now. The golden blob was still flowing between the other colors. It was flowing beyond them, flowing free!
In full stride, Lath was galloping down the dip and up the rise to the ending post. He was flying past it, leaving the "lusty" horses behind.
"The little horse wins!"
"Lath, an easy winner!"
"Lath, son of Godolphin Arabian, wins!"
People of all ages and all ranks clapped their hands and cheered in wild notes of triumph.
Agba never knew how he and Sham reached the royal stand. But suddenly, there they were. And the Earl of Godolphin was there, too.
"I am pleased to give," Queen Caroline was saying in her sincere, straightforward manner, "I am pleased to give and bestow upon the Earl of Godolphin, the Queen's Plate."
Everyone could see it was not a plate that she held in her hands at all. It was a purse. But only Agba and the Earl knew how much that purse would mean to the future of the horse in England. The Earl looked right between the plumes in the Queen's bonnet and found Agba's eyes for an instant. Then he fell to his knees and kissed the Queen's hand.
A hush fell over the heath. The Queen's words pinged sharp and clear, like the pearls that suddenly broke from her necklace and fell upon the floor of the stand. No one stooped to recover them, for the Queen was speaking.
"And what," she asked, as she fixed one of her own purple plumes in Sham's headstall, "what is the pedigree of this proud sire of three winning horses?"
Agba leaned forward in his saddle.
There was a pause while the Earl found the right words. "Your Majesty," he spoke slowly, thoughtfully, "his pedigree has been...has been lost. But perhaps it was so intended. His pedigree is written in his sons."
How the country people cheered! An unknown stallion wearing the royal purple! It was a fairy tale come true.
The princesses clapped their hands, too. Even the King seemed pleased. He puffed out his chest and nodded to the Queen that the answer was good.
Agba swallowed. He felt a tear begin to trickle down his cheek. Quickly, before anyone noticed, he raised his hand to brush it away. His hand stopped. Why, he was growing a beard! He was a man! Suddenly his mind flew back to Morocco. My name is Agba. Ba means father. I will be a father to you, Sham, and when I am grown I will ride you before the multitudes. And they will bow before you, and you will be King of the Wind. I promise it.
He had kept his word!
For the first time in his life, he was glad he could not talk. Words would have spoiled everything. They were shells that cracked and blew away in the wind. He and Sham were alike. That was why they understood each other so deeply.
The Godolphin Arabian stood very still, his regal head lifted. An east wind was rising. He stretched out his nostrils to gather in the scent. It was laden with the fragrance of wind-flowers. Of what was he thinking? Was he re-running the race of Lath? Was he rejoicing in the royal purple? Was he drawing a wood cart in the streets of Paris? Or just winging across the grassy downs in...
Why did the pen stop writing?
'Cause the pen wasn't very dependable.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1. A castle weighs a ton. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The Queen of England's won! I never thought she'd get it done, but her sister is a nun.
English: It's the story of two potatoes, one gets mashed and the other screams “Oh mash!”
French: C’est l’histoire de deux pommes de terre. Une d’elles se fait écraser et l’autre s’écrie “Oh purée!”