Okay, three blokes walk into a pub. I say blokes, but I mean gods. The joke works better that way.
So, three gods walk into a tavern: the God of Denial, the God of Knife-Throwing and the God of Outcasts (they used to have one, now they’re godless).
The first one says to the bartender, “I’m not as drunk as you think I am.”
The bartender says, “Are you sure?”
The god says, “Of course I am. Now sit me a drink, I don’t want a headache in the morning.”
The second god says to the bartender, “I’d like a plate of knives, please.”
The bartender says to himself, “Looks like a nice sort of bloke. Like one of the three I had in last night.” So he gives the god a plate of knives.
The third god says to the bartender, “I’d like a drink, please.”
And the bartender says, “Here you go.”
The God of Knife-Throwing plies the God of Outcasts with a number of drinks, most of them two, and convinces him to stand in front of an up-ended table with an empty glass on his head. (A full glass wouldn’t work as well – it’d just make things wet.) Then he prepares his knives.
The God of Denial says, “I can’t watch this,” and turns his head away.
The God of Knife-Throwing picks up a knife, when the bartender goes, “Oi! You can’t kill him. I’d have no customers if he was dead.”
The God of Knife-Throwing says, “My god, you’re right. I couldn’t do that to my favourite bartender.”
So he kicks the God of Outcasts out on his arse.
And that’s why, if you’ve ever observed, professional knife-throwers say a little prayer to their god before their act, and, as a tribute to his magnanimous act, miss.
They also ruined the circus, the bastards.