Delivery Style: narrative

Narrative joke delivery styles, punchline pacing, and comedy formats for people with specific chaos preferences from Chaotic Meh — organized so the algorithm can pretend this place has adult supervision.

  • Maybe Later

    An eight-year-old kid swaggered into the lounge of the hotel and demanded of the barmaid, “Give me a double Scotch on the rocks.”

    “What do you want to do, get me in trouble?” the barmaid asked.

    “Maybe later,” the kid said. “Right now, I just want the Scotch.”

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  • We’re on the Patch

    Two drunks are driving down the highway, drinking their beer. All of a sudden the driver notices lights flashing in his mirror — the cops are on his tail. His buddy says, “What are we going to do?”

    The driver says, “Don’t worry. Just do exactly what I tell you and everything will work out perfectly. First, peel the labels off our beer bottles and we’ll each stick one on our forehead. Then shove the bottles underneath the seat, and let me do the talking.”

    They pull over and the cop walks up to the car. He looks at them kind of funny, but asks to see the guy’s driver’s license. And he asks him, “Have you been drinking?”

    “Oh, no, sir,” the driver replies.

    “I noticed you weaving back and forth across the highway. Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?” the cop asks.

    “Oh, no, sir,” the drunk answers. “We haven’t had a thing to drink tonight.”

    “Well, I’ve got to ask you,” says the cop, “what on earth are those things on your forehead?”

    “That’s easy, Officer,” says the drunk. “You see, we’re both alcoholics, and we’re on the Patch!”

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  • Your Tit Is Hanging in the Ashtray

    A very inebriated lady walked into a bar shortly before closing time, sat at the bar and ordered, “Barbender, barbender, I would like a Martoutsy.”

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    The bartender brought her a Martini, which she drank in one gulp.

    “Barbender, I would like another Martoutsy.” Again, the bartender brought her a Martini.

    By this time the lady was leaning heavily forward, barely able to hang on. She called, “Barbender, your Martoutsys are giving me heartburn.”

    Patiently, the bartender came near her and said, “Lady, I am not a barbender, but a bartender, and what you have been drinking is not a Martoutsy, but a Martini, and finally, you do not have heartburn — your tit is hanging in the ashtray.”

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  • Help Getting Out of the Mud

    Two guys left the bar after a long night of drinking, jumped in the car, and started it up.

    After a couple of minutes, an old man appeared in the passenger window and tapped lightly.

    The passenger screamed, “Look at the window! There’s an old ghost’s face there!”

    The driver sped up, but the old man’s face stayed in the window.

    The passenger rolled his window down partway and, scared out of his wits, said, “What do you want?”

    The old man softly replied, “You got any tobacco?”

    The passenger handed the old man a cigarette and yelled, “Step on it!” to the driver, rolling up the window in terror.

    A few minutes later they calmed down and started laughing again. The driver said, “I don’t know what happened, but don’t worry — the speedometer says we’re doing eighty now.”

    All of a sudden there was a light tapping on the window and the old man reappeared.

    “There he is again!” the passenger yelled. He rolled down the window and shakily said, “Yes?”

    “Do you have a light?” the old man quietly asked.

    The passenger threw a lighter out the window, saying, “Step on it!”

    They were driving about a hundred miles an hour, trying to forget what they had just seen and heard, when all of a sudden there came some more tapping.

    “Oh my God! He’s back!” The passenger rolled down the window and screamed in stark terror, “WHAT NOW?”

    The old man gently replied, “You want some help getting out of the mud?”

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  • Dear Alcohol

    Dear Alcohol,

    I thought I’d take a minute to discuss some troubling factors with you.

    First and foremost, let me tell you that I’m a huge fan of yours… your many sides and dimensions are mind-boggling (different than beer goggling, which I’ll touch upon shortly.)

    Yes, my friend, you always seem to be there when needed — the perfect post-work cocktail, a beer with the gang… and you’re even around in the holidays — hidden inside chocolates, you warm us when we’re stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings.

    Yet lately, I’ve been wondering about your intentions. You see, I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, but I feel that your influence has led to unwise consequences, briefed below for your review:

    1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity occurs at 5 a.m.

    2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal and, though cooking is far from my speciality, why you suggested that I eat a kebab with chilli sauce coupled with a pot noodle and some stale crisps (washed down with chocolate Nesquik and topped off with a Kit Kat) is beyond me. Eclectic eater I am, but I think you went a bit too far this time.

    3. Clumsiness: Unless you’re subtly trying to tell me I need to do yoga more to increase my balance, I see no need to hammer the issue home by causing me to fall down the stairs. Completely unnecessary. Similarly, it should not take me more than thirty seconds to get the key into the front door lock.

    4. Pictures: This is a blessing in disguise, as it can often clarify the last point below, but the following costumes are heretofore banned from being placed on my head in public: Indian wigs, sombreros, bows, ties, boxes, upside-down cups, inflatable balloon animals, traffic cones, bras.

    5. Beer goggles: If I think I may know him/her from somewhere, I most likely do not. Please do not request that I go over and see if, in fact, I do actually know that person. This is similar to the old “Hey, you’re in my class” syndrome circa 1986 at SU, and should heretofore be rendered illegal. Coupled with this is the phrase “Let’s shag.” While I may be thinking this, please reinstate the brain-to-mouth block that would keep this thought from being a statement, especially in public.

    Further, the subsequent hangovers have got to stop. Now, I know a little penance for our previous evenings’ debauchery may be in order, but the 2 p.m. Hangover Immobility is completely unacceptable. I ask that if the proper steps are proactively taken on my part (i.e. water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin) prior to going to bed/passing out facedown on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be quite minimal and in no way interfere with my daily Saturday or Sunday (or any day, for that matter) activities. Come on now… it’s only fair — you do your part, I’ll do mine.

    Alcohol, I have enjoyed our relationship for some years now, and want to ensure that we remain on good terms. You’ve been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when we just don’t know what to do with the extra money in our pockets. In order to continue this relationship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above and address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Friday at 6 p.m. (pre happy hour) on your possible solutions, and hopefully we can continue this fruitful partnership.

    Thank you for your prompt attention to these matters.

    Sincerely, your biggest fan.

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  • The Three FBI Agents

    There were three recruits that were on their way up the ranks after joining the FBI for top-ranking officers. There was one final test for them to do before they were chosen to officially join the top ranks, and if they failed, they would not be chosen for the prestigious position.

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    So there were three doors, and the commander explains what each of them needs to do. He says, “Behind the door with your name on it is each one of your wives, and for the final test you must go in that room — there will be a gun sitting on the table — and you need to kill your wife.”

    There is an awkward silence for a few minutes before the first guy goes in the room with his name on it. A few minutes later, he comes bursting out of there crying, “I can’t do it! I just can’t do it!” He hands the gun to the commander and walks away.

    The second guy goes into the room with his name on it, and he’s in there for a little bit longer. He calmly comes out of the room, hands the commander his gun, and says, “Nope, can’t do it.”

    So the third guy goes in the room with his name on it, and he’s in there for quite a while. And then all of a sudden everyone outside the door hears “BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!” then “click, click, click, click,” and then they hear what sounds like a struggle. A few minutes later, the third guy comes out and says, “God damn it, somebody put blanks in this gun, so I had to take off my jacket and strangle the bitch.”

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  • Quit Making Spectacles of Yourselves

    A monocle strolls into a bar. After a couple of drinks, he starts feeling pretty great (and a bit unsteady). He reaches for a cigarette, but the bartender cuts him off. “Sorry, pal, but city rules ban smoking inside. You’ll have to go outside if you want to smoke.”

    So the monocle jumps down from the bar stool and picks up his cigarettes to head out. At the same time, a second monocle comes out of the bathroom. They collide as they pass each other and tumble to the ground, completely twisted together. They attempt to untangle themselves, but the harder they try, the more knotted they get.

    The bartender stares down at the mess and shakes his head. “Hey, you two!” he yells. “Quit making spectacles of yourselves!”

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  • Who Fucked Up Your Hair?

    A woman was getting her hair done at the salon for a trip to Rome with her husband. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded:

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    “Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded and dirty. You’re crazy to go to Rome. So how are you getting there?”

    “We’re taking Continental,” was the reply. “We got a great rate!”

    “Continental?” exclaimed the hairdresser. “That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they’re always late. So where are you staying in Rome?”

    “We’ll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome’s Tiber River called Teste.”

    “Don’t go any further. I know that place. Everybody thinks it’s gonna be something special and exclusive, but it’s really a dump.”

    “We’re going to go to see the Vatican and maybe get to see the Pope.”

    “That’s rich,” laughed the hairdresser. “You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

    A month later, the woman again came in for a hairdo. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.

    “It was wonderful,” explained the woman. “Not only were we on time in one of Continental’s brand-new planes, but it was overbooked and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome twenty-eight-year-old steward who waited on me hand and foot. And the Teste hotel was great! They’d just finished a $5 million remodeling, and now it’s a jewel, the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us their owner’s suite at no extra charge!”

    “Well,” muttered the hairdresser, “that’s all well and good, but I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

    “Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me.

    Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.”

    “Oh, really! What’d he say?”

    He said, “Who fucked up your hair?”

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  • It’s a Date!

    A woman is walking through the park when she sees a very attractive man sitting on a bench. He’s reading a book and eating some fruit out of a Tupperware container. Slowly, the woman gathers courage to go ask him out. She walks over, takes a seat next to him, turns and says, “Sorry to bother you. I know this may be a little forward, but I would love to grab coffee with you some time.”

    Flattered, the man responds, “Sure… but what makes you so certain you and I would get along so well?”

    “Well…” the woman says. “A couple things, actually. I noticed you were wearing a Metallica t-shirt. They’re my favorite band of all time. When they went on their …And Justice for All tour, my parents took me to see them in Chicago. I was twelve years old and it was the first concert I ever went to. I absolutely love Metallica.”

    The man can’t believe it.

    “I saw them play in Chicago too! First concert I ever went to on my own. My best friend Mike and I told our parents we were sleeping at each other’s houses, snuck out, took a bus into the city, and saw them play at the World Music Theater!”

    Naturally, they’re both shocked.

    “If that isn’t weird enough…” says the woman. “I noticed you’re reading Mark Twain. I was a communications major in university and I actually wrote my thesis on Mark Twain and how he used satire as a lens to comment on current events of the time, comparing him to satirical news sources of today. He’s my favorite author.”

    Now the man is really taken aback. “Get out of here! I was an English major in university! I specialized in nineteenth-century American literature and this is like my fourth or fifth time reading Tom Sawyer. I absolutely love Mark Twain.”

    They both can’t believe it… this has got to be a match made in heaven.

    “Ok…” the woman says. “Well, buckle up because here’s the icing on the cake. I noticed you’re eating a prune. Prunes are my absolute favorite fruit. When I was a kid, my grandfather lived on a farm. He had an orchard that mainly grew apples and some lemons, but he knew how much my sister and I loved prunes so he kept a couple of plum trees. Every year at the end of the summer, we’d go up and harvest the plums with him. He’d dry them and by the time we’d go back to his place for Thanksgiving he’d always have those prunes saved just for us. They’re my favorite fruit! I love prunes, you’re eating a prune, this has got to be fate. What do you say?”

    The man puts down his fruit and responds, “It’s a date!”

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  • $chool and kNOwledge

    Sam went away to school. A month later, he mailed a letter to his mother:

    Dear Mom,

    $chool i$ great. I’m making lot$ of friend$ and $tudying hard. I’m acing $pani$h and Economic$, and I $pend hour$ in the $ocial $cience$ department. $ociology i$ intere$ting!

    Ju$t off I can’t think of anything I wi$h for, but it would be $uper nice if you could ju$t $end me a card, a$ you know I would alway$ love to hear from you.

    Love and ki$$e$,
    your $on, $am

    His mother wrote back:

    Dear Sammy,

    I kNOw ecoNOmics, astroNOmy, and oceaNOgraphy are more than eNOugh to keep even an hoNOr student busy. Do NOt forget that the pursuit of kNOwledge is a NOble task, and you can never study eNOugh.

    Love, your mom

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