I just had a think. It was a relatively important thought. It made me process in my mind what’s most important to me. So after 30 minutes of crawling through the memories of my favourite porn films and sexual experiences, I came to the conclusion that nothing is important. Nothing needs to be in my life except me being alive (and porn).
So, now I’m sitting here, resorting to Tumblr. Rather than playing guitar, doing work, revising, having sex, thinking about having sex, masturbating to the thought of me having sex, crying while masturbating to the thought of me having sex; all things I could be doing with my day, but no, I’m here, on Tumblr, that place I never visit. Tumblr is a little like a brothel, there’s so much sex everywhere but I feel lost and unwelcome due to my lack of experience with it. I always get an itchy feeling when I come on Tumblr. An itch leads to a scratch. A scratch leads to a stroke. A stroke leads to a trip to the hospital and possibly death. Lesson? Don’t play with your penis or you will die.
I do theatre, and in theatre I act, surprisingly. I’m an actor. That’s such a cunt thing to say from me, I say ‘Oh, I’m an actor, I act’, but I’m not really worthy of the title of an actor. Sure, I’ve performed in plays with school and College, but I’ve not really done anything that can support the title. Maybe if I got in a film, or tv programme for the length of time it takes to have sex, I’d be a true actor. Thirty seconds isn’t gonna be enough screentime for me to get noticed, but it’s a job. A job gets money. Money is green. My eyes are green. Therefore, I am money. Don’t ask me how I got to that conclusion, I genuinely have no fucking clue, I am just so broke that if I went to Africa and give them my entire bank account, they’d call me homeless scum and probably piss on my foot.
J’adore le poulet, car j’aime le gout; I like Chicken because I like the taste. Je voudrais le merde car j’aime le gout; I would like shit because I like the taste. These are two french sentences that I live my life by. I like chicken, it’s tasty, my favourite food. I like shit because, uhh, well, I dunno, it just feels good when it happens. Does that make me gay? Does that define me as a homosexual because I get such pleasure from the shlong shaped, brown substance that leaves my rear passageway as I sit on that glorified throne I refer to as my home? No. I’m not gay, I act gay. I’m basically gay. Except I buck girls all the time. Some of the time. Occasionally? Fuck sake, okay, never, I masturbate to girl porn. Masturbate is probably my most used word. I should be ashamed of myself. But, it’s also my most used past time, so all’s good.
I don’t remember the last time I wrote for Tumblr, it feels so long ago that I can remember my own christening better (before you call bullshit, I was like twelve). Last time I wrote anything I was so far up someone’s arse that when she talked I’d be popping out her throat like a cuckoo clock. I have so much to say, but everyone that reads this are teenagers, like me, your attention span is that of a goldfish with Alzheimers that died 3 weeks ago. So Christmas occurred, the infamous birth of Christ, the birth of a single man that most of society don’t accept into their lives and religion causes everyone to recieve presents from a fat man running around in a red suit telling all the little boys to be good while bossing midgets around to do all his work with little or no pay or days off. Christmas sure is fucked up. I have a love hate relationship with Christmas. Marmite is disgusting, it’s made from yeast. Yeast, is genuinely hilarious. Yeast infection, megalolz lmfao can’t stop the hilarity. Yeast and I are two of the same, we’re both in bread.
My Christmas wasn’t very eventful. I’ve got a story to tell you though, I’m really going out on a limb here, this may change your opinion of me forever, you might think I’m not worth human life, you may even go as far as to want to invent a time machine, go back to July 1993 packed with a metal coat hanger and a desire to find my pregnant mother and use your imagination. So the first present I opened on Christmas morning (after I had like 2 fucking hours sleep, thanks Mother) was a lovely pair of new underwear, space invaders, beautiful pristine white background with little space ships scattered around it varying in colours throughout. Eight hours after first putting these on; this was not the case. Yes, Anthony Robert Ashurst was sitting at his pc having a chat to all his buddies and let out what he thought was one of the best farts known to man kind. This was however not the case, once making his way to the toilet, Anthony let out his christmas dinner in all it’s glory. Shit happens, eh? Now I’ve thought of millions of puns (with the help of my friend, Vanessa). Here they come, these are some of the films I should of acted in (being an actor n all):
Shite club, Forrest Dump, The Shawshat redemption, The Lord of the Rings (self explanatory), City of Chod, The Mateshitz, Apocalypse Now in my pants, Stephen King’s The Shiting, Shite Chicks, Braveshart, Sin Shitty, Coach Sharter, Shitain’s got talent, Fatman: The Dark Shite, Tom Hanks in The Brown Pile, King Pong, Shatman returns, Only poo’s and horses, The Pooman Show, A Shite’s tale, Poono, and finally Two Pints of larger and a pants full of shits.
So, Anthony why have you admitted that you covered your brand new underwear in your own faece’s publically on Tumblr? Because I’m not afraid of anything, except spiders that can swim or jump, you can no longer use the bath as a shield from the cunts anymore! I’m not actually scared of spiders or anything like that, I don’t think I’m scared of any animal really.
Okay, I lied. This muthafucker may not look that bad. “Oh it’s just a little snail thing” Yeah, that’s exactly what it is, a little snail thing that will look pretty to pick up. Then once you pick this fucking piece of shit up after it looking all beautiful and shit it will stab you in the palm with a harpoon type thing that will pour some casual toxins into you. Y’know just the casual ones that cause sialorrhea, sweating, headache, weakness, lethargy, ataxia, incoordination, tremor, paralysis, cyanosis, aphonia, dysphagia, seizures, dyspnea, bronchorrhea, bronchospasm, respiratory failure, coma, hypotension, collapsenausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain and finally result in cardiovascular collapse. In thickshit terms, you will do a lot of shitting yourself (stfu), vomitting, pissing and be in a whirlwind of pain, if you don’t piss/shit(stfu)/vomit all the venom out in time, you may die. So that’s a load of shit kicking you in the balls.
Wow, this has been a pretty daring post if I’m being honest, I’ve possibly set myself up to be insulted for the rest of eternity for a mistake that fucking happened on Christmas day (Jesus). I’ll leave you with a small poem about 2011.
Two thousand and eleven has been overhyped,
hence why this poem is now being typed,
so far it’s shit, it’s boring, nothing has occured,
yeah, it was last year I covered myself in turd,
I wanted to try and keep that joke out,
and I didn’t want to compare myself to a girl scout,
who also make brownies but in the oven,
I know you’re reading this and my misfortune you’re lovin’,
but I do want to take the time to confess,
as there is something I need to address,
this entire experience has made me realise,
the unfortunate events in all the old guys,
who do this stuff on a regular routine,
How many years without a nappy? Fifteen.
Writing my poems is hard, it’s such a struggle,
like trying to teach the art of magic to a muggle,
or telling a fat girl she’s skinny when she’s clearly obese,
but damn that bitch should of laid off the cheese,
I’m not being judgemental, I’m not that kinda guy,
I just hate those fat nerds who eat loads of pi,
as they need the circumference in order to indulge,
but the more they eat, the smaller their bulge,
I suppose I can’t talk, my penis is relatively small,
and when at the buffet, I’ve got to eat it all,
I’m oh so surprised I don’t have Diabetes, type two,
The day that I do get it, is the day God will rue,
as I’m just a guy, pushing my body to it’s limits,
either eating the trifles, or a few chocolate biscuits,
I feel like my death is rather imminent,
and if I continue I’ll become impotent,
but that’s okay, it’s not like I’m drowning in clunge,
this spear of mine I’ll never get to plunge,
I’m going to finish by annoying a friend of mine,
by using a word that will cause her to whine,
it’s rude, it’s vulgar the actual word is ‘cunt’
Don’t judge my choice of words, or your face I will punt.
