After a minimal amount of research, I found that you can be an expert in almost anything. BBC news has a money expert, and economics expert, and a political expert on their newsreader payroll. While I’m certainly not an expert in any of those fields, I figured that it wouldn’t be too difficult to find something that I was an expert in. Surely there’s something I can excel at to the point of expertise. I just needed to find something that I do every day to a certain degree, and I can pretty much start writing blank cheques.
As it turns out, there’s simply no market for being an expert in living in your filth. I laid around in nothing but a stained t shirt, allowing houseflies to flit around lazily on my genitals whilst letting out a gentle sigh, and yet failed to make a single penny in profit, despite doing it for a solid two weeks. I could have persevered longer, but the dead mice in the corner were playing havoc with my allergies, so I ventured forth on the path to expertdom.
The next idea I had was to become a sex expert, or as I preferred to call myself, a sexpert. In order to become a sexpert, one must be very familiar with the act and art of sex. Having seen plenty of it on TV, and by carefully observing baboons at my local zoo through a zoom lens, I figured I had all of the prerequisite knowledge required to become a fully-fledged sexpert. But, as all sexperts will tell you, the theory is nothing without the practical, so I needed to put my scientific method to good use.
|Experiment: Can we have sex with this? Method: Insert test tube|
It turns out that girls don’t like being referred to as “test subjects” and many refused to come back to my laboratory for further study. Perhaps it was the fact that I was still wearing that t shirt from earlier, or my unusual stethoscope protruding from my trousers, but everyone turned me down flat. That is, everyone except for Bertha.
Bertha was a wonderful test subject. She had no qualms about the electrodes, and even asked for more to be added. We wrestled and wrassled, gripped and grappled, and eventually we found ourselves floating somewhere between the gutter and nirvana. A state of perpetual ecstasy ensued, which Bertha said she hadn’t experienced in all of her 89 years on this planet. The throes of passion shook a layer of crusty skin flakes off of her, which hung in the air for days as a thick layer of dust.
Figuring that I had become a sexpert, I tried to find employment with my new set of senior-satisfying skills. I tried the porn industry, but they didn’t seem very impressed when I showed them the film footage. It seemed that all my efforts were for naught. Still, at least I managed to get sweet comfort sex from Bertha.
If anyone would like to see the footage, just send me an email. I very proud of the lighting, and the angles merely defy the frame of the shot. You will not be disappointed.