A well-known dead-beat caught Mulla Nasrudin on the street one day before the Mulla could duck. “I am really in a jam and need money,” he said to the Mulla,” and I have not any idea where I am going to get some.” “I AM SURE GLAD TO HEAR THAT,” said Nasrudin. “I WAS AFRAID YOU MIGHT HAVE THE MISTAKEN IDEA YOU COULD BORROW SOME FROM ME.”
Mulla Nasrudin’s family was on a picnic. The wife was standing near the edge of a high cliff, admiring the sea dashing on the rocks below. Her young son came up and said, “DAD SAYS IT’S NOT SAFE HERE. EITHER YOU STAND BACK FARTHER OR GIVE ME THE SANDWICHES.”
The young lady had said she would marry him, and Mulla Nasrudin was holding her tenderly. “I wonder what your folks will think,” he said. “Do they know that I write poetry?”
“Not yet, Honey,” she said. “I HAVE TOLD THEM ABOUT YOUR DRINKING AND GAMBLING, BUT I THOUGHT I’D BETTER NOT TELL THEM EVERYTHING AT ONCE.”
Mulla Nasrudin complained to the health department about his brothers.
“I have got six brothers,” he said. “We all live in one room. They have too many pets. One has twelve monkeys and another has twelve dogs. There’s no air in the room and it’s terrible! You have got to do something about it.”
“Have you got windows?” asked the man at the health department.
“Yes,” said the Mulla.
“Why don’t you open them?” he suggested.
“WHAT?” yelled Nasrudin, “AND LOSE ALL MY PIGEONS?”