Writing jokes
It's supposed to say "goes," not "goes."
Once, asked if I played Scrabble, being dyslexic, I asked if it was the standard version or the deluxe dyslexic version.
Be papered.
Why did the rapper carry a notebook everywhere?
To jot down his RAP-SODIES.
The other day at school we had to write down our hero and what we would do if they walked into our house. I got off easy because my hero is Stephen Hawking.
I don't have time to write this joke.
Um... (no idea what joke I should tell).
Why can't poor people write jokes?
Because they make no cents.
A capital E backwards is just it's mirror image.
I told my wife I needed a blood transfusion when I could not remember. She said, "Be positive too."
Bad, I am now a ghost writing this.
What kind of Panera Bread do pencils use?
Panera Lead.
Some people decide to start a blog.
Others decide to start a blog.
You know what my sink started?
A clog.
What did the rapper say to his BROKEN PENCIL?
"You broke the beat!"
Knock knock. Who's there? Broken pencil. Broken pencil who? Nevermind, it's POINTLESS.
Fritz Cheng was asked to write three articles on the subject. He went to his grandmother and advised her: "Question: Kill people! I am sorry, Mr. Fritz, I am looking for his brother—what do you suggest?"
Brother: "I'm Superman. I am Superman!"
Fritz remembers entering the room. That's Alfredo's question in front of the TV: "Do you have any advice?"
Fritz tells a story from his school days. "Remember our words?" said Professor Fleck. "An artist? Is that true? Frison, who are you?"
"I am Superman. I'm Superman," he said. "I hope to meet the president."
Listen, Man United might not thank me but get the contract out, put it on the table. Let him sign it, let him write whatever numbers he wants to put on there, given what he's done since he's come in. Ole's at the wheel, man. He's doing it. He's doing his thing. Man United are BACK.
Why don't rappers ever get LOST?
Because they always find their way with their GPS (Great Poetic Skills).
The Hodja purchased a piece of meat at the market, and on his way home he met a friend.
Seeing the Hodja's purchase, the friend told him an excellent recipe for stew.
"I'll forget it for sure," said the Hodja. "Write it on a piece of paper for me."
The friend obliged him, and the Hodja continued on his way, the piece of meat in one hand and the recipe in the other. He had not walked far when suddenly a large hawk swooped down from the sky, snatched the meat, and flew away with it.
"It will do you no good!" shouted the Hodja after the disappearing hawk. "I still have the recipe!"
Did you hear about the bad joke? No? It hasn't been made up yet. HAHAHAHAHAHA
If this gets 10 comments (I don't care about likes) I will write a four page essay and post it, and it's up to you guys what it's about.