Jimmy Perfidious had a rare and useless talent. Every time he threw something into the bathroom waste basket it went in. He never once missed, no sir. He didn't, as you wouldn't, notice at first. He just threw and threw and threw and threw and threw and threw and threw and threw over the course of days and weeks and months and fortnights and weekends and years and decades and through and through. One day he noticed that he never seemed to miss. He threw and threw. Never sitting there screwing up the Sunday papers page by page, enjoying the smell of his own shit, testing whether he ever missed, but just throwing whenever he would have thrown, and once he noticed that he never seemed to miss, noticing more and more that he never seemed to miss. One day he noticed that he was no longer just seeming to never miss; he never had missed and never would miss.
He tested it and failed. He tried to miss and he missed. This ain't no slice of Jesus, he has to aim. He tried throwing something into another bin in another room, and after a couple of throws, he missed. He tried moving the bathroom bin into another room and throwing, and after a couple of times he missed also. He tried another bin in the bathroom, and again after a couple of throws he failed. Had Jimmy known he would fail in other rooms and bins before he failed in other rooms and bins, then he would have liked to have failed as absolutely as he succeeded in the bathroom bin, but he couldn't know before he did, so he wouldn't have had a chance to like what he would have liked, and it doesn't make any difference to anything because neither wanting nor doing ever came to fruition, tail-eating motherfucker that he is, or was, or whatever fucking tense we're in.
Venture capitalists heard from some convenient plot device about Jimmy, and offered to slice his bathroom out of his house with big expensive knives that couldn't be used to dig into faces, and show him to everyone who wanted to pay. Jimmy jumped, and was stomped when he didn't get the second round of funding. He'd only had a bit of measuring done to his bathroom, but that's a taste of the high life for someone who it's been decided gets excited by someone showing brief interest in his useless talent for throwing anything into a bin just so he can be motivated to go and show off his useless talent to everyone, but without him being labelled a moron, even though his simplistic actions suggest exactly that. Got it?
No-one fucking cared about his useless fucking talent. He was just throwing things into a bin. If he'd missed (which he never did), all that would happen would be that he would walk over, pick it up and put it in the bin. There was no excitement, and there could be no excitement. He threatened himself with a punch in the face if he missed, but he never missed, he was never nervous about missing because he knew he never missed, and no-one was there to care, whether they be there to care as folk who knew he never missed, or wondered whether he might miss. He stopped threatening to punch himself in the face, because someone might hear him talking to himself, and they'd be more interested in that than his rare and useless talent.
He was supposed to go off and get everyone to come to his bathroom and look at him throwing things into the bin, but he couldn't get anyone to come and look, and then he stopped trying to get people to come and look, and then he stopped throwing things into the bin because it reminded him that no-one cared that he never missed, and then he didn't care.