A: A choo-choo Twain.
Q: What would you get if you crossed a comedian and an Edgar Allan Poe story?
A: The Wit and the Pendulum
Q: What happened when the bomb-sniffing dog wrote his autobiography?
A: It got on the best smeller list.
Q: What did they call Tom Sawyer's friend after he lost a lot of weight?
A: "Huckleberry Thin."
Q: What do young ghosts write their homework in?
A: Exorcise books.
Q: What sort of people make the best bookkeepers?
A: The people who borrow your books and never return them.
Q: What did one arithmetic book say to the other?
A: I've got a big problem.
Q: What is a flea's favourite book ?
A: The itch-hikers guide to the galaxy!
My wife gave me a really cheap dictionary for my birthday.
I couldn't find the words to thank her.
A novelist went to a psychiatrist and said anxiously, “Doc, I keep having the same dream, over and over. I wake up and I know the dream is a great idea for a best-selling novel, then I go back to sleep and, when I wake up the next morning, I can’t remember the plot! It’s driving me crazy!”
“When you go to bed at night,” the psychiatrist suggested, “leave a notepad and pencil on the bedside table. When you awake from the dream, with the memory of it fresh in your mind, write it down.”
That night, the writer placed a pad and pencil next to his bed. As usual, he had the dream again and woke up more convinced than ever that it was a terrific idea for a book. He snatched up the pencil, jotted a brief note, then, relieved, turned over and went back to sleep.
When the novelist awoke in the morning, he couldn’t remember a single thing about the dream, but he knew he’d followed the psychiatrist’s sage advice. Excited, he grabbed the notepad and read his note to himself:
“WRITE IT DOWN.”
A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell.
She decided to check out each place first. As the writer descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.
“Oh my,” said the writer. “Let me see heaven now.”
A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they, too, were whipped with thorny lashes.
“Wait a minute,” said the writer. “This is just as bad as hell!”
“Oh no, it’s not,” replied an unseen voice. “Here, your work gets published.”
(I really identify with that last one. Easily my favorite.)