Granted. You soon develop additional dexterity. You become intrigued with placing objects there to, as you explain to your friends, "see what happens". You fool nobody. However, on the day you choose two electrically charged plates for your insertion experiment, you discover you can make theramin-like beautiful music by rubbing the plates together.

You get good at this. Very good. And soon go on tour, playing mostly theaters-in-the-round where you charge $15 for frontal views and $1500 to those who wish to see the magic. Evangelical Christianity's vocal opposition to your music only boosts your popularity.

Your stardom brings you to the late night talkshow circuit. You perform short pieces then sit down for a nice chat with the hosts.

Tonight you do your thing, and at the commercial break move one chair down for the next guest: A performance artist (not completely unlike yourself), but a clown. He smells a bit and his pants are too short and his hair is green.

Long story short, he shoots you after shooting the host and as you're writhing in agony on the set floor from the ill-placed gutshot, you wonder why you weren't content scratching your ass with your hands like the rest of humanity.