A guy I worked with told me a joke once. No, my mistake; he told it to me eleven times. Anyway, it was a girl, not a guy. And she didn’t work with me, I think. I don’t know her name. Anyways, this guy, I mean girl, they told me that two guys were in a bar.

No, that’s not it. Painting a church. The guys were painting the church, not the girl that was telling me about the guys in the bar. I mean church. Anyway, they were painting. The church, I think. So, they’re running out of paint. One guy looks at the other, and shrugs and dumps in some turpentine. It doesn’t cover so good, but it goes on easy and lasts a long time. So the other guy puts in twice as much turpentine as the first guy, and you could read a newspaper through it at this point, but it looks like they’re going to finish without having to buy more. They’re both adding up all the stuff they’re going to buy with the money they saved, and they’re so distracted they don’t notice the girl telling me this story come in.

No, that’s not it. She didn’t come in. A huge hand came out of the sky and shot a lightning bolt into the church parking lot and it burned up the painter’s van. The two guys rush out to stand awestruck as their truck is consumed in a huge plume of smoke and flames. Then a big, booming voice like Edward G. Robinson…

No, that’s not the guy. Charlton Heston; you know — that guy. Anyway, Charlton Heston was painting this church. No, wait, he’s not in this story, he was in some sort of two-story rowboat or something in his swimming trunks, but at any rate the voice sounds like him. So this big, booming voice comes down from the heavens and says: “Repaint, and thin no more!”

Then the two painters go to the barroom. I knew this story happened in a barroom somehow.