I thought of a fictionalized beginning:

"The root of evil is the love of all money!" the sandy-haired guy said.
"What?" asked his bigger, black-haired partner.
Hammered, thought Al, spying an open booth near the back corner.
The little one gathered his strength for another try, "The root of love is the evil of all money!"
"Hah!" countered the second drunk, sounding like Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar Named Desire to Al. "You mean 'the root of money is the love of.... Oh, for the love o' Mike! It doesn't start with 'the root', doornuts! Now ya got me doin' it."
An explosion of hilarity from sandy-hair, then, backhanding his friend in the upper arm, "Hey! What are you now? Some kinda theelogian? 'The love of money is the root of all evil!'" he blurted, finally getting it right.
Al shook his head at this foolishness and moved to the empty booth. While he waited for Karen to show, he ruminated on the drunks' malaprops. He thought they were actually decent corollaries of the original. Hell, the way most religions interpreted it, they might even be more appropriate.
Paul...St. Paul didn't say "money is the root of all evil." Truthfully, money is just a tool to facilitate exchange, so I don't have to give you twelve tons of iron ore in exchange for enough finished wood to build a house. How would you figure the exchange rate on that. Of course...
"What? Oh, Modelo Negro, please." Al found himself blushing in the dim room, having been caught gesticulating alone at the table by the pretty young waitress.
"I saw you talkin' to yourself!" she laughed.
"I was thinking about what those guys were saying."
"Sure, sure." she laughed again, heading back to the cooler behind the bar.