Laughter Really Is the Best Medicine: America's Funniest Jokes, Stories, and Cartoons

by Editors of Reader's Digest

  Pleased they finally appreciated his work, he opened it to read, “See you soon!”

  — CHRISTINE KITTO

  S

  adly, in the nightclub world, bald singers don’t fare well—hence my reason for buying a hairpiece. When I asked my accountant if I could write off the toupee as an expense, he hesitated. Then he changed his mind.

  “All right,” he said finally, “I’ll put it down as an overhead.”

  — GEORGE SIMPKIN

  W

  e invite grandparents to a special day at our school, culminating in a photo op with grandparent and grandchild posing in front of a colorful display from a history class.

  Only after the last shot was snapped did we notice what appeared above each grandparent’s head: a banner screaming, “Discover the Ancient World.”

  — DEBBIE WOOSTER MILLER

  I

  heard an older woman complain about her aches. But her friend one-upped her: “I woke up this morning and thought I was dead because nothing hurt.”

  — NANCY KUNKEL

  I

  walked into the music store to buy a CD of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto. I found the hip-hop, R&B, country, and jazz sections, but no area where I might look for Rachmaninoff.

  “Excuse me,” I said to a young store clerk. “Do you have a classical section?”

  After a brief hesitation she asked, “You mean…like Elvis?”

  — TOM LISKER

  M

  an, times have officially changed since I was a kid. I was at the mall with my daughter when we saw a man with a patch over his eye. My daughter said to me, “What is he trying to quit?”

  — BUZZ NUTLEY

  T

  here was no way I was going to allow myself to go gray while only in my 30s. So I dyed my hair. Later, I modeled the new look for my husband. “Well, do I look five years younger?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “But your hair does.”

  — STACY OATES

  A

  guy sees a beautiful woman at the other end of the bar. He walks up to her and says, “Where have you been all my life?”

  “Well,” she says, “for the first half of it, I wasn’t even born.”

  — ROBERT GABBITAS

  Even at age 88, my mother was vain about her looks. At a party an old friend exclaimed, “Edith, you haven’t changed in 20 years!”

  “Oh,” said Mom, horrified. “I hope I didn’t look like this 20 years ago.”

  — JIM BRADING

  I

  ’m bald—well, balding. I like to say “balding” because it sounds more productive. And I don’t like to say I’m losing my hair, because that makes it sound like had I been more responsible, this wouldn’t have happened. “Where’s your hair?” “I lost it. You know me. Where are my keys?”

  — ISAAC WITTY, AS HEARD ON ROOFTOPCOMEDY.COM

  T

  he woman in front of me at the motor vehicles office was taking the eye test, first with her glasses on, then off. “Here’s your license,” the examiner said when she was done. “But there’s a restriction. You need to wear glasses to drive your car.”

  “Honey,” the woman declared, “I need them to find my car.”

  — NICOLE HAAKE

  S

  ome of us took our friend, an older woman, out to lunch to celebrate her birthday. When the waitress came to take our order, one of the women told her, “This is a special occasion. Elsie is 92 today.”

  The waitress made seven instant enemies and one friend by asking, “Which one is Elsie?”

  — ANONYMOUS

  T

  wo neighbors appeared in court, each woman accusing the other of causing trouble in their building.

  “Let’s get to the evidence,” the judge said in an effort to end their bickering. “I’ll hear the oldest woman first.”

  The case was dismissed for lack of testimony.

  T

  he thing you need to focus on in your 20s is not getting a bad tattoo. You don’t want to be 40 and going, “No, dude, it was different back then—everyone loved SpongeBob.”

  — TOM PAPA IN TIME OUT NEW YORK

  A

  n elderly couple with memory problems are advised by their doctor to write notes to help them remember things.

  One evening, while watching TV, the wife asks her husband to get her a bowl of ice cream. “Sure,” he says.

  “Write it down,” she suggests.

  “No,” he says. “I can remember a simple thing like that.”

  “I also want strawberries and whipped cream,” she says. “Write it down.”

  “I don’t need to write it down,” he insists, heading to the kitchen.

  Twenty minutes later he returns, bearing a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. “I told you to write it down!” his wife says. “I wanted fried eggs!”

  — WENDY LEVINE

  “You know when you’re getting old,” my friend said, “when you tell your best friend you’re having an affair and she asks,

  ‘Is it catered?’”

  — BOB ROYER

  T

  he kids in my third-grade class were struggling with the day’s lesson on homonyms. I’d said the word I and wanted them to guess the soundalike word eye, but they just couldn’t.

  Finally, I pointed to my eye. Bingo! One boy got it. He shouted out, “Crow’s-feet!”

  — JANE RAY

  T

  he remote for our television broke, so my son went to get a new one at the electronics store. Later he called. “Mom, I forgot to bring it with me. What’s the brand?”

  I glanced at it. “It’s a Volch.”

  “A what?”

  “V-o-l-c-h,” I spelled.

  “Mom,” he sighed, “that’s short for Volume and Channel.”

  — JOAN WHITE

  W

  hen a storm blew in around our cruise ship, an older woman on deck struggled to hang on to her hat and keep her skirt from flaring up at the same time. My wife ran over to help. “Should I hold your skirt down?” she asked.

  “Forget about that,” the woman yelled. “I’ve got an 85-year-old body. This hat is brand-new.”

  — MIKE DREA

  Dying to Laugh

  M

  ost businesses like that our credit card machines automatically print, “Thank you, please come again,” at the bottom of receipts. Though one guy called to ask if I could take it off.

  “Sure,” I said. “But do you mind my asking why?”

  “It just seems inappropriate,” he answered. “We’re a funeral home.”

  — MICHELLE BALLARD

  D

  uring my uncle’s wake I saw two of his friends peer into the open casket. “Doesn’t Stanley look good?” said one.

  “He should,” said the other. “He just got out of the hospital.”

  — MARY KINNEY

  L

  ying on his deathbed, the rich, miserly old man calls to his long-suffering wife. “I want to take all my money with me,” he tells her. “So promise me you’ll put it in the casket.”

  After the man dies, his widow attends the memorial service with her best friend. Just before the undertaker closes the coffin, she places a small metal box inside.

  Her friend looks at her in horror. “Surely,” she says, “you didn’t put the money in there.”

  “I did promise him I would,” the widow answers. “So I got it all together, deposited every penny in my account, and wrote him a check. If he can cash it, he can spend it.”

  J

  unk mail for my father-in-law clogged our mailbox months after he passed away. Usually I tossed the stuff, but one envelope made me hesitate. In bold letters it promised, “Here’s that second chance you hoped for!”

  — ERREN KNIGHT

  A

  n acquaintance of ours was—how do I put this delicately?—not well loved. So when he died, I was amazed to see how many people showed up for his funeral.

  “I’m not
surprised,” said my husband. “As P. T. Barnum said, ‘Give the people what they want, and they’ll show up.’”

  — JOYCE FITZSIMMONS

  M

  y father, a gravedigger, was told to prepare for a funeral. But on the day of the service, it was discovered that he had dug up the wrong plot. Luckily for him, the deceased’s daughter was very understanding.

  “Poor Dad,” she lamented. “He always complained he could never find a parking space.”

  — EMILY WILLMOT

  P

  illsbury spokesman Pop N. Fresh died yesterday, at 71. In attendance at the funeral were Mrs. Butterworth, the California Raisins, Hungry Jack, Betty Crocker and the Hostess Twinkies.

  Fresh rose quickly in show business, but his career was filled with many turnovers. He was not considered a smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Still, even as a crusty old man, he was a roll model for millions.

  Fresh is survived by his second wife. They have two children and one in the oven.

  The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.

  — CHARLES SULLIVAN

  A

  customer named Willie Smith called our dry cleaners looking for his suit.

  “We have a William Smith,” I told him.

  “No, Willie Smith,” he insisted. I looked in our logbook and discovered that the suit had been picked up by the sister of William Smith. I phoned her, then got back to Willie.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “But William died and was buried in your suit.”

  “Well, you’re not going to believe this,” he said. “I was at that funeral. And I remember thinking, What a nice suit William’s wearing.”

  — CARL POWALIE

  It was my four-year-old’s first time at a funeral, and I wanted to make sure he behaved at the cemetery. “What is the most important rule to remember?” I asked.

  He thought for a while, then answered,

  “Don’t dig up the bodies?”

  — STACIE TERREAUL

  Leaving a funeral, my 13-year-old son dropped a heavy question on me: “What will happen to us if you and Dad die?” My young daughter knew: “We’d go in the limo.”

  — CHERYL ROBERTS

  A

  s I shampooed his carpet, an elderly client began to tell me what a wonderful woman his recently deceased wife was.

  “Bless her soul, we had 35 happy years together,” he said, pausing to reminisce. Looking up, he added, “That ain’t too bad outta 50.”

  — STEPHEN PRYJDA

  B

  efore he made the big time, actor Ray Liotta held a less glamorous job working in a cemetery. Though some might have been put off by it, Liotta told the women on The View that he didn’t mind the gig.

  “I had a hundred people under me, and it was quiet,” he said.

  — JOSEPH BLUDIS

  A

  lawyer dies and goes to heaven. “This must be a mistake,” he says to Saint Peter at the golden gates. “I’m too young to die. I’m only 50.”

  “Fifty?” says Saint Peter. “According to our calculations, you’re 82.”

  “How’d you get that?”

  “We added up your billable hours.”

  T

  he burial service for the elderly woman climaxed with a massive clap of thunder, followed by a bolt of lightning, accompanied by even more thunder. “Well,” said her husband to the shaken pastor when it ended, “she’s there.”

  — NORM SCHMITZ

  D

  uring a funeral the organist played a beautiful rendition of Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze” as the casket was carried out of the church. After the service the minister complimented him on his performance. “Oh, by the way,” the minister asked, “do you know what the deceased did for a living?”

  “No idea,” said the organist as he began packing up.

  The minister smiled. “He was a butcher.”

  — PETER LUNN

  W

  hen Luciano Pavarotti died, the TV newscaster insisted that the tenor’s funeral would not be a sad affair but rather a celebration of his life, featuring the opera world’s greatest stars. “With so many celebrities and dignitaries in attendance, who wouldn’t want to be at the funeral?” the reporter asked.

  My daughter knew: “Pavarotti.”

  — HOLLY HASSELBARATH

  F

  ollowing a funeral service, the pallbearers are carrying the casket out of the church when they accidentally bump into a wall. From inside the coffin they hear a faint moan. Opening the lid, they find the man inside alive! He leaps out, performs a little jig, and lives another 10 years before eventually keeling over.

  Once again, a ceremony is conducted, and at the end the pallbearers carry out the casket. As they head toward the doors of the church, the wife of the deceased leaps to her feet and shouts, “Watch the wall!”

  — DORIS POOLE

  “A

  s another year rolls in,” read an ad in our paper, “we’d like to offer our best wishes to all of you who have given us reason to celebrate.” It was signed, “Gunter’s Funeral Homes.”

  — JAN ASLIN

  Humor in Medicine

  T

  he teenage boy seemed placid as I approached his hospital bed to give him a psychiatric evaluation. His mother was seated nearby, immersed in her knitting.

  I walked over and introduced myself to the boy. He looked right through me and started screaming: “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

  I had never witnessed such a dramatic example of hysterical blindness. “How long has this been going on?” I asked his mother.

  Without looking up, she replied, “Ever since you stepped in front of his television.”

  — ISAAC STEVEN HERSCHKOPF, MD, IN THE NEW YORK TIMES

  M

  y patient in the hospital had led a tough life, and it showed—he was disheveled and unkempt. Recently, while he was in a particularly somber mood, I was combing his hair when he mumbled, “It’s hopeless.”

  “Don’t say that,” I insisted. “It’s not hopeless. You just need to make a decision to change your life and seek help. You’ll see, things will start looking up!”

  Turning around, he said, “I was talking about my hair.”

  — NADINE GINTHER

  A

  psychiatrist gets a frantic call. “You’ve got to help me, Doctor,” a woman says. “My husband thinks he’s a big opera star. He sings every night at the top of his lungs! Aida! Rigoletto! Traviata!”

  “Send him to me,” the shrink says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  A week later the woman calls again. “Doc, I don’t know how you did it! He’s not singing nearly as much. Did you cure his delusion?”

  “No,” says the psychiatrist. “I just gave him a smaller part.”

  — MARY LODGE

  O

  ne of our patients wasn’t taking any chances. Prior to her operation, she taped notes all over her body for the surgeon: “Take your time,” “Don’t cut yourself,” “No need to rush,” “Wash your hands,” etc.

  After surgery, as I helped her back into her bed, we discovered a new note taped to her, this one from the doctor: “Has anyone seen my watch?”

  — ALBERTA ALLEN

  P

  art of my job on the hospital’s cardiac floor was shaving patients from chin to toe in preparation for bypass surgery. The women tended to be fine with this procedure, but not the men. One guy in particular gave me a rough time, refusing to let me come near him. Finally, I made a suggestion that helped him overcome his shyness.

  “If you like,” I told him, “I can do this with my eyes closed.”

  — MARSHEA LEWIS

  A

  fter transporting hospital patients from one floor to the next, I stopped to chat with a new volunteer. “I work in patient transfer,” I told him. “I push people around.”

  Not the type to be one-upped, he countered, “I work at the information des
k. I tell them where to go.”

  — RALPH JOHNSON

  “H

  ello, nurse,” said a rabbi, phoning me at our hospital nurses station. “I got a call that a patient wanted to see me, but I’m not sure which one it was.”

  Clueless myself, I took a wild stab. I walked into a room, woke the patient, and asked, “Did you request a rabbi?”

  “No,” she said sleepily, “I ordered the chef’s salad.”

  — MARGARET KRAFT

  Before writing a prescription for my young daughter, the pediatrician asked her if she was allergic to anything. Erica whispered something in his ear.

  That night, before giving her the medicine, I read the directions on the bottle. The doctor had warned,

  “Do not take with broccoli.”

  — JOHN JOHNSTON

  I was on line in the cafeteria of the hospital where I work when I overheard a doctor ask an anesthesiologist how his day was.

  “Good,” came the response. “Everyone’s woken up so far.”

  — JENNA GALAZEN

  W

  hatever happened to “First do no harm”? While I was paying my bill at my doctor’s office, I noticed blood trickling down my leg. The Band-Aid they had put on me after a procedure had come loose.

  “I’m bleeding all over your floor,” I said to the receptionist.

  She looked up immediately, alarmed. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll call housekeeping.”

  — TRACY KRAFT-THARP

  V