A priest and a scientist walk into a bar, looking for a miracle. Who here isn't?
No, wait. Start over. A priest and a scientist walk into a bar. Neither of them will be born for another ten years. And this isn't really a bar. This is more of a bowling alley that serves beer. There are booths and waitresses and fried food and there's an air hockey table. Children can eat here, as long as they're with their parents, as long as it's earlier than eight p.m. Ugly little hologram children, either old or dead now, remembered forever in the machine.
Their files list this time and this place as a potential miracle. This is their expertise. This is their calling. This is better than just sitting around waiting to die.
I'm not telling this joke very well.
A priest and a scientist walk into a bar, looking for a miracle. Everybody does, I guess. But these two fancy motherfuckers get paid to do it.