Setting: Comedy club stage.

Host: Welcome to Political Roast Night! First up, Donald Trump!

[Audience cheers.]

Host: Trump's hair is like his promises—mysterious and probably not real. He tweets more than a bird on Red Bull!

[Audience laughs.]

Host: Now, Kamala Harris!

[Audience cheers.]

Host: Kamala’s so good at grilling people, even her BBQs come with subpoenas. Her laugh? It’s like she knows the date of your next tax audit.

[Audience laughs harder.]

Host: Trump and Kamala—one builds walls, the other breaks ceilings. Together, an architectural nightmare!

[Audience roars with laughter.]

Host: Thanks, folks! Keep laughing and thinking!

[Curtains close.]

There once was a speedy tomato,

who raced a speedy potato;

while trying to catch-up,

it let out some ketchup

but was too embarrassed to say so.

(this is how it was discovered that fries and ketchup go great together.)

When I got kicked out of high school, I just didn't know what to do with myself. How could I have expected a measly prank to go so wrong? All I did was fill the principle's car with my true love: apple juice. My only skills were basic coding and disaster-prevention. As I wandered down the lonely street, it dawned on me: perhaps I could go into cider-security?

Five not-so-bright Englishmen stand on a hill talking to the Nazis (who the Englishmen think are British)

The general huffed. “I zaid, do you zink we are British?”

“I mean, who else could you be?”

“We are ZE Nazis,” he spit.

“If you’re not zees, then what are you?” Tommy asked.

The General looked at his captain, who looked at him, who looked back at Tommy.

“What?”

“What are you if you’re not Z’s?”

“WE ARE ZE GERMANS.”

“Ohh, you're... our enemies?”

“Zyes.”

“Eh, at least you’re not French.”