Almost nothing here is a new joke. You have heard these at a kiddush, at a wedding, or from somebody who tells them the same way every single year.
The trouble is who a lot of them get told about. The same joke that is harmless about nobody in particular turns sour the moment it is told about a race, a religion, or a type of person — and plenty of the classics were built that way.
So they get redrawn. Every joke on this site is handed to two brothers. Nobody is the butt of it except Quacky, and Quacky is fine, because Quacky has not noticed.
The older one. Smart, neat, glasses, a navy vest and a plan.
Wacky is the one asking the sensible question. He is also the one who ends up under the couch, in the ditch, or with his hand over his eyes while his brother explains something to a policeman.
The younger one. Orange hair, striped polo, total confidence.
Quacky is never unsure. He answers the door, takes the job, gives the diagnosis and celebrates the report card. Whatever the joke is, Quacky walks straight into the middle of it, smiling.