Category Archives: Monday morning writing joke

Monday morning writing joke: “Knock about”

Knock, knock!

Who’s there?

Chaucer.

Chaucer who?

Chaucer, that’s my baby, naw sir, don’t mean maybe…

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Monday morning writing joke: “Line”

Q.: What do you call five writers marching in a single line through a war zone?

A.: A writers’ column

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Monday morning writing joke: “Vehicle II”

Q.: What do you call a cab with three writers stuck in traffic while on the way to a writing conference?

A.: Writers blocked.

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Monday morning writing joke: “Vehicle”

Q.: What do you call a vehicle that seats a mummy, a zombie, a werewolf, and a vampire?

A.: A Monster truck.

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Monday morning writing joke: “Hitting the right note.”

Ernest Hemingway was sitting at a bar in Havana when in tottered an old, wizened man who hobbled up to the piano, sat down, and began playing.

He played wonderfully until he came to one certain note in the middle of the keyboard, which he could never get right. Always the same note. Always played badly.

“What’s his problem?” Hemingway asked.

The bartender shrugged. “We tried running him off, but he keeps coming back. So, we got him a music teacher. He ran her off. We then tried a psychologist. He didn’t last long, but he did suggest we not treat this problem as a big issue and maybe, eventually the man will go away. So he comes in to play and we ignore him and if anybody asks, we shrug our shoulders and say, ‘It’s just the old man and the C.’”

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Monday morning writing joke: “Dickens twist”

Charles Dickens walks into a bar.

The bartender says, “What’s wrong, Chuck? You look glum.”

Dickens says, “I’ve got the worst writer’s block I have ever had. I can’t even think of a title for my book.”

Bartender says, “Bummer. Can I get you a drink?”

Dickens: “Yeah. Make it a good stiff martini.”

Bartender: “Okay. Olive or twist?”

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Monday morning writing joke: “Date night”

A zombie and a vampire went out on a date.

Somebody didn’t have the brains to realize the relationship sucked.

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Monday morning writing joke: “Blockage”

There once was a writer from Minsk /
who wrote once, but couldn’t write since /
Writers block, he would say, /
chipped his confidence away /
or so that was his pretense.

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Monday morning writing joke: “Grammar gremlin”

An alien crash lands on earth, wanders into a small town, finds the only house with a novelist in it and knocks on the door.

The novelist answers and after the initial shock of seeing such a strange creature, the creature hands him a note. It reads: “In your language, I have come to invade and conquer.”

The novelist scribbles something on a piece of notebook paper, tears it out, and hands it to the alien: “Why?”

The alien types in something on his keyboard and out prints his response: “Because you are weak and we are strong and this world has many things to offer us.”

“Does that include the asteroid on a collision course toward earth?” the novelist asks.

The alien thinks about that. After a moment, the alien turns and leaves.

The novelist turns back to his writing, knowing nobody would believe him if he put this incident in his novel: an alien with good grammar. Unbelievable. After all, fiction had to be believable.

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Monday morning writing joke: “Running late”

Their three kids, all successful, agreed to a Sunday dinner in their honor.

“Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad,” gushed Son No. 1. “Sorry I’m running late. I had an emergency at the hospital with a patient, you know how it is, and I didn’t have time to get you a gift.”

“Not to worry,” said the father. “Important thing is we’re all together today.”

Son No. 2 arrived. “You and Mom look great, Dad. I just flew in from LA between depositions and didn’t have time to shop for you.”

“It’s nothing,” said the father. “We’re glad you were able to come.”

Just then the daughter arrived. “Hello and happy anniversary! Sorry, but my boss is sending me out of town and I was really busy packing so I didn’t have time to get you anything.”

After they had finished dessert, the father said, “There’s something your mother and I have wanted to tell you for a long time. You see, we were really poor, but we managed to send each of you to college. Through the years your mother and I knew we loved each other very much, but we just never found the time to get married.”

The three children gasped and said, “WHAT? You mean we’re bastards?”

“Yep”, said the father, “Cheap ones too.”

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