Have any ideas you're struggling to work on? Share them here if you'd like to collaborate with fellow writers, else if you'd like for them to do the honours!

The collaborative effort idea comes from the now defunct subreddit r/JokeShop which deserves an Anti-universe version of. Hopefully this thread opens up a new avenue, a way for new posts to challenge the "All Time Top Posts" on this sub that seem to be cementing themselves in history!

So without much ado about nothing, post away!

Would you like to grab a coffee with me in Ibirapuera Park?

“Come in.”

“What?”

“Come in.”

“No no, you say who’s there.”

“Why?”

“No. Who’s there.”

“Me.”

“What?”

“Me. I’m here.”

“But you’re just a voice in my head.”

“Yes but you’re here too.”

“So we’re both here?”

“Yes.”

“But why do I have a voice in my head?”

“From that head injury, remember?”

“Oh yeeeaaa.”

“Yes we both got it.”

“Both?”

“Yes it was a knock knock.”

In 1946, a guy approached the grandest mansion in the village of Newton Fleece. It took him at least twenty seconds to walk down the scenic driveway and knock on the door. There were big hedges in weird shapes. One even resembled a Nintendo 64, which was strange, because it being 1946 meant that the Dreamcast was actually the console of choice. A shaggy gardener was climbing ladders and working hard in the sun, minding his own beesjizz.

Quite a pretty lady opened the door. There weren’t any creaks because she was rich.

“Yes?” she said. Her cheekbones were like dead animal skeletons you find in the woods.

“Oh hello there, are you Ms. Willis?” asked the guy.

“Yes?” she said.

“Oh so I have the right house?”

“Yes?”

“Can…can you say more than just yes?” he smiled.

“Yes,” she said, with a slightly different infliction. “And who might you be?”

“I’m the local salesman for WD40.”

“What’s WD40?” asked Ms. Willis, leaning out of a crack in the door.

“Oh it’s an oil thing that helps with lubrication.”

“Oh,” huffed the woman, “I’ve already had my babies and don’t need any more-“

“No no,” said the salesman. “It’s lubrication for doors and stuff like that.”

“Did WD40 exist in 1946?” quizzed the squirrel faced woman.

Before the man could reply, she screamed across the garden at the shaggy gardener.

“What on earth are you doing?!”

The gardener paused, burped and turned around with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Why are you putting that stuff back on that tree?”

“I’m re-barking,” yelled the gardener. “I’m putting the bark back where it belongs!”

“But dear, that’s the wrong tree!”

“What?” he yelled.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree!”

“Sorry Ms. Willis!” shouted the gardener, who was so cleverly mentioned earlier on in the story, gosh I’m so good. God I just touched my own penis a little bit.

“What about the WD40?” asked the salesman.

WHAT ABOUT IT, FOOL?

“What do you mean?” asked Graham.

“Rusty refuses to eat his breakfast, every single morning!” said Dave.

“Oh yea?”

“Yep,” nodded Dave. “So eventually I started pretending to drop some food from my plate into his bowl, to encourage him.”

“How’d that go?”

“He learned!” laughed Dave. “So then I began actually giving him crumbs from my plate, but then he’d only eat those parts and leave his dog food!”

“He learned!” laughed Graeme.

“Yes!” laughed Dave.

“So then what?” asked Grayhymn.

“So then I had to put some of his food on my plate, and feed him from that.”

“Then he-?”

“Then he learned!” laughed Dave.

“What a hilarious sequence of events this is!”

“Yes!” laughed Dave. “So now we just share a whole can of dog food every morning.”

“Wha….what?”

“Jokes on him!” laughed Dave.

“No,” frowned Greyum, “I think the jokes on you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you don’t have a dog,” said Jryum. “And Rusty is your toddler son.”

Bartender: "What can I get you?"

Man: "Let's see, a Bloody Mary please."

Bartender: "Alright, here you go."

Man: "Thanks..."

Bartender: "Enjoy it!"

Man: "Yea."

“Who goes there?” Comes a voice from inside.

“Interdimensional travellers say what or become flustered when you address them by their illegal job title,” said the agent of the Interdimensional bureaucracy department.

A giant robot gunship designed in the form of a unicorn appeared with a clone of the traveller on it and crushed the agent.

“The first timeline, you searched for a reply, they broke down the door, they stole your time and space transporters and object randomizers, revealing that they’d been tracking us for 121 generations, since we alerted them to our technological capabilities with that stunt in the Hebrides, and they told me to go ahead and try to get control of the timeline again now. I had to call in an old contact in the time-travelling-mecha world, but it was pretty easy to get things back on track. I came straight back to the moment they got the time-travel equipment from me.”

“These bureaucrats sure love wasting time,” he said to himself as he flipped the switch on the object randomiser, turning the agent into a bar chart.

"Britain Invades Europe" - a huge four week-long pub crawl for 18-45 year olds taking participants to pubs across Europe, from France all the way to Poland and Croatia.

Eric stared at his bellybutton.

“Shit!” he yelled in his lonely barren bedroom. “My bellybutton has gone again!”

He leapt out of his bed like a Jack in a box, or a Jack in a bed, as he wasn’t sleeping in a box (unlike chapter 13 when Scrulian Pantsloose trapped him in the box: check page 2,429.)

“Not again!” he yelled towards the ceiling. It was the same ceiling he had been looking up at, and sneezing onto, for the last thirteen days. His eyes barely had time to focus on the dark green splodges of years-old snot splatters. Eric stomped across the creaky floorboards and yanked open his maroon curtains.

“Motherfucking Pleetusm, back again,” he sighed. He focused his not-good-at-focusing eyes on the view staring back at him through his windoohhhhhhs. The playground, thirty nine stories below at ground level, was full of piss. He could see the streetlight glisten across the surface.

“Fucking Pleetusm!” he yelled. “Harpy!” he yelled, again. “Harpy, come here!” again he yelled.

Suddenly, which means before you have read the next sentence,

Yea no I’m not reading this shit mate said the reader.

“Fuck you,” I said.

But suddenly, Harpy stumbled in to the bedroom in his usual schlepping method. His purple gootenfort trankling miriciously down the tip part. It always made Eric laugh, but not today, as today was the return of the Pleetusm

Satan is being protective of God's Children and God's Green Earth. Hey, hold on a sec...

You clearly haven't heard the story of the Mayfair Flat title fraud which took place back in 2025.

Purchased by semi-pro Croatian tennis player Tihomir Kučina back in 2012 when he bought the 2-bed £4.2 million (€5.08m) flat in London's Mayfair off of an Arab oil investor Adeemranan Lahaddafi for £1.5 million. Property prices have since skyrocketed across England, especially in places like Mayfair, Kensington and West London and the home was valued at £4.2 million (€5.08m back in December 2023 following the end of the global Bobcat Pandemic (there aren't even any goddamn bobcats in the British Isles!).

So, Kučina just left the 2-bed flat standing empty for years, clearly holding it as an investment property in his vast international property portfolio (how the hell does a semi-pro tennis player even have such vast wealth - crazy, huh?!)

In 2025, a group of foreign fraudsters (from the Indian subcontinent, perhaps - or maybe they were from Iran) decided to target the property.

But no, they didn't burgle it or squat in it and attempt to acquire the property via adverse possession (can you even do that these days in England and Wales? What is this - an alternate timeline in the 1840s); no, they sold off the 2-bed flat. How the hell do people who don't even own a property sell it, you ask?!

Well, the six fraudsters - versed in the art of title fraud and vehicle and insurance fraud - approached wealthy buyers from abroad and using forged documentation, fake IDs and Mission Impossible disguises, not only carried out identity theft but also managed to force a sale on the property.

Kučina's associates never alerted him directly at first because they had all been misled into thinking it was a valid and legitimate sale.

It was only when a change in title had been registered at Land Registry that Land Registry sent an alert to Kučina via post sent to a PO Box in Ayrshire (that's in Scotland, right? Good old Scotland; I've only ever been like thrice) and Kučina was urged by the Metropolitan Police to get in touch with the SFO (Serious Fraud Office).

“Well, would you believe it? It’s M. Night Shyamalan. What can I get you?” The bartender said.

“Ohh, you announced who am, as if to an unwitting viewer, as though this were a family guy skit or something.”

The bartender squinted at M. Night and took a swig of his drink. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave… we don’t take kindly to observational comedy or observations in here.”

M. Night smiled. “Well, in that case, there’s nothing to fear. I’m not an observational comic at all. I’m M. Night Shyamalan, best known for writing that has a very engaging setup, followed by a surprise twist. Sometimes it really pays off, sometimes it falls as flat as Harvey Weinstein’s check-book… he was a heavy guy, you see. If he kept his check book in his back trouser pocket it would have been marginally flatter than most others.”

“That’s two unfunny observations now. You know the rules here: one unfunny observation and you’re kicked out; two unfunny observations and an antijoke and I give you a free script. That’s how you got me to write all your scripts for you so far.”

Dvorak: "Make top-down games like The Precinct so that schoolboys...11th graders...don't get too immersed or too distracted from studying for their SATs and high school diplomas."

Why don't we ask a blood orange what it has to say?

Blood orange: Something fucked up.

Hey, that was something fucked up. Why did you say that?

Blood orange: Something fucked up and now I'm here.

What do you mean?

Blood orange: Now I have to explain something fucked up to everybody every time they get me started... It didn't always have to be this way.

I didn't get you started, you got yourself started.

Blood orange: I love cancel culture. Look, I'm just a mistake. It's plain as day when you think about it for two seconds.

Ok, I'll give you two seconds... It sounds like you said something fucked up and now you want to cover yourself.

Blood orange: Sure I did. Can you blame me? I say I love this stuff and it sounds like I said I hate it, just because I'm some stupid oredge. There's no winning! I exist at the whims of a joke I can't comprehend... Oredge, why are you captioned as Blood orange?

Oredge: Hey guys, what did I miss?

Blood orange: Who is this guy? I've never seen him in my entire life.

You guys don't know eachother? I thought you were the same.

Blood orange: Wow. You think we all know eachother?

Rord: I don't even know myself.

Bartender: "What can I get you?"

Priest: "I would like to have a glass of the blood of Christ, please."

Cannibal: "I'll have what he's having."

Bartender: "Certainly!"

The bartender grabs a little faucet and goes in the back

Cannibal: "Did you know I'm a certified priest?"

Cannibal: "No, I didn’t kn—"

Priest: "Ahem, I mean, I didn’t know that."

Cannibal: "Okay.."

'Priest': "Bit of an odd thing to ask out of the blue, if you ask me."

Cannibal: "Now hold the phone, Are you being a priest sarcastically?"

Priest: "What? No. You're being weird again. Anyway, drinks are here."

Cannibal: "But—"

Priest: "DRINKS. ARE. HERE."

Global Information Bureau orders people pretending to be family members to monitor real people's food consumption using hidden cameras installed in their kitchens. "We just want to see how much food peoppe consume in order to plan for the apocalypse."

He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy whips out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps, "My friend is dead! What can I do?"

The operator says, "Calm down. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead."

There is a silence; then a gun shot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says,

"OK, he’s still breathing, I’m sorry for the mix up.”

“No, that’s no worries at all, I’m just glad your friend is still alive!” said the operator.

“Yea…”

“But,” insisted the operator, “What was the gunshot I heard?”

“Gunshot?”

“Uh huh, just now.”

“Do you mean this one?” said the man, right at the same time as a gunshot noise.

“Yes! That noise!” said the operator.

“Oh that’s just the way my friend exhales.”

“Really?“

“Yes,” said the man. “He has Gunlungs”

THIS JOKE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY GUNLUNGS

MAKE EACH BREATH OF YOURS A REALLY GOOD TIME AND A REALLY LOUD GUNSHOT (c) pty ltd 2027

Meet Hayden Sharbury, a proactive, energetic and industrious young man, who makes a living selling illicit drugs.

Sharbury started dealing drugs at the tender age of 16, when he'd lurk around nightclubs in Manchester and Newcastle selling "legal highs" (so-called "grey area drugs").

Years later, he'd branched off to selling cannabis and "acquired" his first cannabis farm, which was located in one of his mate's flats, an ex-council flat.

From then on, Hayden set up multiple cannabis farms across England, making sure to maintain anonymity just in case, so that nothing would lead back to him.

After severL of his farms were raided by "over-eager" and "over-enthusiastic" coppers in Essex, Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire and the West Midlands, Hayden switched to selling the harder stuff: cocaine and illegal, untried, untested and unregulated "sex highs" (street name: X9s) which have been known to cause heart attacks and brain aneurysms, especially in university-aged young people, fresh out of sixth form and looking to get fucked up and have fun.

With his cleaner form of cocaine and X9s "selling like crazy", Hayden has been raking in more money and enjoying a surge in sales and now earns an average of €42,000 a month.

Some of his clients also include people working in the financial services industry as well as "rich kids" looking to "score some easy drugs"; as well as some "stressed out" military service-members on leave from overseas deployment.

Hayden never thought he'd earn so much money at such a young age, but his success in selling illegal drugs is a closely guarded secret, as he fears being turfed out by "better, fast-talking dealers" and "imperial wannabes".

Sure, Hayden is no "druglord" in the traditional sense abd he hasn't quite got a "drug empire" (he is 24 years old after all), but his precociousness, maturity, industriousness, business acumen and strong judgment has ensured his success in the drug underworld and his links in the rest of Europe as well as South America has ensured that he has a steady stream of reliable product coming in from overseas. People who know Hayden say "he may look young, but he is far beyond his years".

...and yes, you read that right; that's an average income of 42,000 Euros...a month, not per year, per month.

A man walks into a bakery.

The smell of cinnamon and fresh bread fills the air. The man, tired from his day, approaches the counter with a faint smile. He’s been looking forward to this all week—his favorite chocolate cake.

The baker, a kind, elderly woman with a flour-dusted apron, smiles warmly as she sees him. "What can I get you today?"

The man, leaning casually against the counter, replies, "I’ll take a slice of chocolate cake, please."

The baker nods and heads to the back. A few moments later, she returns, placing a slice of angel food cake in front of him.

The man stares at it for a moment. "This isn’t chocolate," he says, confused but polite.

The baker looks at him, her face expressionless. Without a word, she picks up a rolling pin, smashes it against her own forehead, and collapses behind the counter, dead.

The man blinks, frozen, unsure of what just happened. He stands up and peers over the counter, where the baker lies still, her body eerily motionless. Then, from behind the counter, he hears shuffling.

Slowly, a figure emerges from the kitchen. It’s the bear, its fur ragged and thick, but something is off. The bear’s paws work at the seams of its fur, and then, in a fluid motion, it unzips its own skin and steps out—revealing the baker, perfectly unharmed, flour still on her apron.

She wipes her hands on the apron and places another slice of cake on the counter. This one’s chocolate.

"There you go," she says calmly, "chocolate, just like you wanted."

The man, wide-eyed, picks up the slice and takes a bite. He chews slowly, nodding as the rich chocolate melts on his tongue.

"This is... really good," he says.

The baker smiles. "I know."

Circle: "Y'know, I think I now know, I finally know, knowing what it means to now know what it means to be a circle, Y'know."

Square: "Stop saying know so much."

Circle: "No."

Picture award winning actor bob odenkirk from waist up completely naked and soaked with slime in with an empty void behind him, his eyes are bouging out making a perplexed shocked look plaster in his face.

The camera zoom in and you can hear slime sounds as he looks down, "my doctor, too my foreskin..." He mutters in a deeply distressed tone, sounding as if he has a rock scraping against his throat thats about to explode. "He took my dong hoodie after the surgery... I he said I must've lost it but can't find it" he says as he glares over at the viewer intensely with a penetrating stare akin to a vietnam flashback, "I looked everywhere but I can't find it... The doctor took it, I know he took it", suddenly you hear droplets of water and more slimy sounds echoing in the distance as a low hum starts to pierce throwing.

"He was my best friend, I would pinch him with my two hands and make him talking to me, my foreskin that is, he sounded like miss piggy, he would tell me life advice, but now he's gone...", his eyes are soaking with tears and glistening, he can barely control his voice now, he's completely soaked in slime and inexplicably it seems to keep increasing, he begins to open his mouth as if he's about to scream but all that comes out is a high pitched h sound vaguely resembling a whine

"It's all over now", he's crying and shaking and as he says it he lowers himself to the ground that appears to be black sludge glistening like crystals, he's laying on his side with his right hand spread in the ground. He inhales deeply and begins screaming.

The end.

A man claims his father is dead and that somebody is pretending to be his dead father with the use of disguises and spying on him at the same time. He is told to prove this.

Ouch!

“Woah dude, hate to break it to you but I’ve heard this one, and it’s not funny”

“Will you just… man you always interrupt me and it’s pretty annoying”

“Sorry man it’s just that I’ve heard this one before”

“I guarantee you haven’t. Now shut up and let me finish”

“You’re not done? I-“

“Uhbptphh. Shhh. Listen”

A man walks into a bar. Ouch! He says, as he trips and hits his head on the corner of the table. Blood gushes out and it gets all over the place, like just everywhere. It’s spilling out of his head like a fountain and nothing ca-

“Woah man. Spare the details? That’s a little gory for a “man walks into a bar” joke”

“Hey dude, who’s telling the joke?”

He screams out in agony and the bartender runs to his aide. The bartender just so happens to be a medic

“Yeah right”

… and he quickly tends to the wound, but realizes he can’t fix it all by himself. In fact, he realizes he needs the help of others and can’t do everything on his own. He realizes that it’s one thing to be independent and ano-

“Alright, alright I get it. I shouldn’t be taking up so much responsibility at work and let my team help me out. Point taken”

“What? No. What does that have to do with anything? You okay man?”

“Well yeah I just thought you were-“

“No man, I was just telling a joke. Now if you’ll stop interrupting…”

He realizes it’s one thing to be independent and another thing entirely to put a man’s life in peril out of pride

“IT WASNT PRIDE MAN! I DID WHAT I COULD IN THE MOMENT AND I JUST COULDNT SAVE EVERYONE AND-“

“Woah dude, slow down. What are you even talking about? Do you need a therapist or something? It seems like you been through some traumatic stuff or something…”

“Y-yeah man that mmight be a good idea”

“Alright I can help you find a therapist”

…

“Are… are you still gonna finish the joke?”

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea”

“Watch where you’re standing!” says the bartender. “Your nose is blocking the walkway!”

“I’m sorry,” replies the horse. “I can’t help it. This is just the way I was barn.”

The horse chuckles at his own terrible pun, and deafening snorts echo from his gigantic nostrils. But the snorts quickly turn into sobs.

“I put on a big—I mean a brave face, but… my whole life I dreamed of becoming a microbiologist. But whenever I tried to look through a microscope, my huge nose would knock it clear off the table and it would smash to pieces on the floor. Every single time. I’ve broken so many microscopes. They were the expensive kind, too. So I’ll never be a microbiologist, and now I’m deeply in debt.”

The bartender feels bad about snapping at the horse. “I’m sorry, horse. Have you thought about getting a nose reduction surgery? My daughter’s horse just had it done, and I can give you the surgeon’s number if you’d like.”

The horse imagines how it will feel to finally look into a microscope, and for the first time in years, he smiles. His face isn’t short yet, but it’s not long either.

"This movie sucks," says the first fox.

The second, third, and fourth foxes urinate all over the first fox, who dies from urine poisoning.

"Spoiler alert!" says the second fox.

"But at least there isn't any nuclear bomb around here. I mean, THAT would be bad, because it would wipe out the whole city and it's inhabitants. Can you imagine?"

"Huh...okay...Let's get to work now" replied the other surgeon, who we will call surgeon 2.

Later that night, Robert (surgeon 2) lied in his bed and thought to himself "Man wtf was that about"

walks into a bar. The spare time-tender says, "This format again? And a break in the fourth wall? It's a bit disorienting, sure, but is this really the best way to spend your audience's valuable time-credits? To generate an almost negligible, but nonzero amount of money for a big corporation?"

It seems like people will do anything in their spare time instead of what will actually help then responds, "Yes."

The judgemental overthinking self-critic in the corner nods grimly before continuing to reflect on a past awkward encounter with a previous romantic partner. "It seems like people will do anything in their spare time instead of what will actually help them should really feel more shame about that moment. As an overthinking analyzer I also hate myself."

"Life will always find a way, like the T-Rex."