Welcome to Grump Bag

Spunking in the face of society since 2008
Feel free to have a poke around the mind of a madman

Saturday, 19 December 2009


Sexual Intercourse starring Gordon Ramsey

Bra

Unclip

Pants

Pull down

Cock

Hard

Insert

Thrust

Thrust

Thrust

Breast

Squeeze


Nipple

tongue

baste

Reflection of self

Watch

Watch

Watch

Watch

Watch

Watch

Spunk

Sex

Done.

Saturday, 5 December 2009

EPRS MINUTES

Minutes
__________________________________________________________________________________

Summary Minutes of the meeting of the
Epsom Paedophile ring society (EPRS)
Held on 15 September 2004 at 2.00pm
At Tommy Long fingers Flat


Present: The Fiddler (Chairman)
Pokey Paul,
Mr Chuckles,
Uncle Harry,
P.D.File,
Tommy Longfingers.

Apologies: Garry Glitter (on vacation)

Agenda

1.Snacks
PK complained last month that not enough snacks are being provided at EPRS meetings.
TF has attempted to resolve this matter by providing two multipacks of Doritos ‘cool blue’ tortillas to this month’s group, along with ‘hot n tangy’ dip.
PK and others agree Doritos will suffice, however perhaps a wider range of dips would be nice. UH noted ‘wild herb’ is enjoyable. Available at ASDA, apparently.

2. Packet of Sweets & a cheeky smile; The end of an era?
P.D.F Delivers lengthy presentation concerning the emergence of a new, media savvy youth generation.
Tried and trusted Packet of Sweets and Cheeky Smile technique no longer a use in today’s modern age.
New ‘fishing tools’ needed on successful hunt : Nintendo DS, Hanna Montana DVD, IPod Nanos. TL raises issue of expense for such items. TL told to stop being a Tommy Tight Cunt.

3. Lubricant Test

MC brings in olive oil, an idea inspired from Gordon Ramsey’s popular Television Programme ‘The F Word’. While MC massages it on, supposed health benefits are explained: good for skin, nourishes hair, even rumoured to prevent cancer. Fails copper pipe test. MC sent to A&E.
PP tests butter. Much more effective. PP’s penis inched a fair way into TL’s ear.

4. Karaoke Competition

UH belts out interesting rendition of Mariah Carey’s ‘Always be my baby’, however is outdone by reigning champ PK, this week singing Lionel Richie’s Classic ‘all night long’. UH's miniskirt and mascara a nice touch nonetheless.

Any other business

PP brings up persisting issue of ‘Nappy Rash’. Johnson and Johnson’s baby oil confirmed as suitable soothing solution.

Date of next meeting

The Commitee noted that the date of the next meeting was Tuesday November at 2pm at Chessington world of adventures (Half Term Week).

Thursday, 5 November 2009


Anti Climax

Girl I fancy at work: (Inaudible)

Me: You think I look like Brad Pitt?

Girl I Fancy at work:
No, I said your breath smells like shit

Monday, 2 November 2009


Five inch Penis

Suspicions surrounding the physical ineptitude of my penis first arose when I visited my local subway sandwich branch.

There, once presented with a six inch steak and cheese melt, the evidence was all but presented to me in onto a logo emblazoned platter.

I only entered its glass walled confines to ‘eat fresh’.

Instead, I was thrusted directly into the face with a six inch oven baked phallus, unnervingly comparatively larger than my own appendage.

“The portions here are pretty big, right..?”, I guffawed, to my wide eyed girlfriend, who had accompanied the ill fated trip.

“ This just can’t be six inches...” I scoffed, grasping the menacing protrusion in one hand.
But my penile friendly PR was fooling nobody. The six inch subway standard had spoken.
She just stood there, mouth gaping, her world reinvented by an instant realisation she has been sexually serviced by a sub standard toad for the past three years of her life.

As I took a sullen mouthful of its wheaty girth, I felt the mayo slop onto the walls of my throat as if Mr Subway himself had spunked inside the very chambers of my mouth.

The problem with being the possessor of an five inch penis is not too dissimilar to the Goldilocks conundrum.

It’s not too big, it’s not too small. Unlike the fairytale however, it’s just not quite right. Even the pig tailed , petticoated princess herself would smirk at the sight of my Lumbricus terrestris.

Mind you, she's swallowed her fair share of porridge.

You simply just cannot make a women rasp in orgasmic rhapsody when your penis resembles the anatomy of parasitic worm. End of.

And now it is time to cry.

Thursday, 22 October 2009

Gossip

That BNP man’s on telly today

What will he say

What will he say

He might do something racist today

What will he say

What will he say

I bet David Dimbleby wont let him get his way

What will he say

What will he say

That Steven Gately died the other day

And he was a gay

And he was a gay

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

Deserves a slap

"Were having Christmas salad this year", my mum just announced.

I'm not in to beating women, especially mothers.

But I swear, I could have slapped her there and then.

Tuesday, 6 October 2009


Film Idea

Reincarnito

Imagine a world where the mystery of death is no longer a mystery.

Imagine a world where legions of paedophiles do battle against hapless infants

Welcome to Reincarnito.

Reincarnito is set in the specifically defined year of 2038, where revolutionary scientific research leads to the development of a wonder chip (not of the saturated kind). This chip, once inserted into the arm pit of a human, enables the conscious mind to travel from its deceased body to a post mortal destination.

It is Saturday, November the 11th, 2038. Strictly come Dancing is on, but amazingly, no one is bothering to watch it. The XR34-ZX Chip is being tested live, in front of a television audience more incredulous than those who witnessed Derren Brown ‘predict’ the lottery 29 years earlier.
The shiny metal prongs glimmer under the studio lights. The sweaty pit of the dead corpse glistens as the chip is inserted. The world waits. A two day old baby rings the programme and reveals all:

Reincarnation is a reality.

Basically, when the chip is mass marketed, everyone then kills themselves, so they can be reborn as babies, and have another stab at life. Everyone, except one group of course.

The Paedophiles.

Cue: Sci Fi / War/ Action flick documenting the savage battle between a fledgling infant society and paedophiles trying to take advantage of the situation, with moralistic undertones.

Limitations: Baby Actors.

Casting idea: Paedophile ring leader: Ben Affleck

Saturday, 26 September 2009

The N word

You know what it is

and so do I.

But I cant say it.

And neither can you.

I wouldn’t feel comfortable using such a word

Even in the Tibetan plateau

The most remote place on earth,

Its that controversial.

Bitch

Minge

Fuck

Shit

Cock

Even Cunt

I can write all these things,

And not have the slightest care

But not the N word.

God no

Wow there

It just wouldn’t be politically correct.

Fuck it

What type of world do we live in anyway

Free speech is everyone’s right

right?

Im gonna say it

Don’t you dare

Here goes:

Please dont

I'M DOING IT

Think of the children

"Nannyflaps."

Charlie and The Chocolate at Home


You will need:

100 bags of pickled onion monster munch

100 bags twiglets

10 1.5 litre bottles of Robinsons Strawberry & kiwi

Ice Cubes

1 Dog

25 curlywurlys

Coca Cola

Watering Can

12 boxes of Cadbury fingers

Method

1) Empty 100 bags of monster munch onto kitchen floor, spreading liberally, to create a never
ending field of golden crisps. Run amok.

2) Pour contents of Robinsons strawberry and kiwi squash into bath, then add ice cubes. Turn on cold tap. Swim within the tranquil waters of your very own tropical tasting lake.

3) Fill Watering Can with coke. Ask friend to pour contents onto your head from above. Dance under a torrential downpour of coca cola rain.

4) Scatter twiglets around in your back garden, then crawl around on your hands and knees; grazing in a partly edible forest. Take care not scrape knees on gravel.

5) Heat curly wurlys gently in microwave, causing them to melt slightly. Apply to the coat of dog. Allow the mythical chocolate tasting beast to roam freely around your wonderland, sampling its delights when and where you wish.

6) Stuff face with constant flow of chocolate fingers in between activities to maintain general feeling of euphoria.

7) Calm down. Clean up.

* Works best if ‘pure imagination’ is played loudly in the background.

What a rack

There was this bar maid

In this Pub

Who had the most banging pair of tits you’ve ever seen.

What a rack.

You know

Not too big

Not too small

Just bang on.


And so all the geezers

in this pub

Used to chat about how fan-

Fucking tastic

This pair of tits were.


Not too big

Not too small

Just bang on.


One day

This Geezer

Mickey Pierce

Said he was gonna ask if he could take a look.

You know,

Go on luv

Get em out

An that.


-He was a right character.


So he walks up to this barmaid

And says

"go on luv".


She looks all confused like.

“What?”

She says.

"Get em out"

He says

All looking down at her tits.


“What do do ya mean? “

She says

prentending not to know,

an that.


But she knows

and we know

- and thats it.



So Mickey Says

“You know exactly what we fucking mean

Darling"

All straight faced


- He was a right chatacter.


So She looks around

And all the geezers in the pub are watching.

Staring.

Leering.

Willing.


“Get them out”

Another bloke mouths.

“Yeah, For the lads!”

Shouts some old todger.

- She feels all on the spot like.


So she does it.

And you know what


That bar maid’s tits

In that Pub

Were the most banging pair of tits you’ve ever seen.

What a rack.


Not too big

Not too small

Just bang on.

Lunch Hour

As the lunch hour approaches, a co-worker asks me what I am planning to eat. “probably a sandwich, or something” I lie, appropriately.


Moments later, I find myself walking through the large glass doorway of McDonald’s; shiftily sporting glances left, then right, like a balding middle ager entering Amsterdam’s red light district.


Nervously approaching the queue, I purposely wear a puzzled expression as I scan the menu; attempting to gain the false impression I do not frequent this ‘restaurant’ more often than is socially acceptable.


“What would you like…?” The till operator asks in a disgruntled tone.


“Just a big Mac meal, with a coke,” I reply apologetically.


“and would you like to go large?”


“No thanks,” I respond, as if the mere suggestion was ludicrous .


The speed at which my order is converted into a snatchable format is crucial to the success of my stealth operation. At the forefront of the queue, I am on stage, my gluttonous exhibitionism visible, on display for all my discerning audience to see.


Thankfully, the puss pimpled student knows exactly what he’s doing, and thrusts the tray at me within seconds. Surveying my array of fatty delight, I instantly regret the Martyr like decision not to have gone large.


Summoning the courage to ask for ketchup, he provides me with a single pot. The shrewd fucker. I don’t have the courage to ask for a second, whisk the tray away from the counter, andscamper off to a private corner, where I then commence the ritualised process of cramming my fat gob.


Clenching seven chips simultaneously in my clamp like claw, I chomp away robotically, . This is heaven, yet I feel guilty, as if I am responisble for child molestation, or the like. So I sit there, slouched over, a sullen gherkin flapping out of my mouth; pondering what social forces are responsible for making me feel this low.


Why does buying a bit of McCrap these days feel as big a Taboo as snatching a pornographic magazine from the top shelf of a magazine rack? I ask myself.

- “Fat bastard” They must say behind my back. “ Fat flabby titted freak”, They must cuss, in a similar, more convincing fashion.

"Now now, calm down," I ask, attempting to quell the internal voices.

Exiting the confines of the McDonalds Burger brothel, having whored myself out yet again, I nurse my rubber tyre with two clenched hands and feel tears swell my eyes for the fifth time this week. At least when I get back to work I can knock one out in the toilet.

CV

Name: James Generic-Grad

Address: My Mothers House

Age: Twenty Something

Telephone: 0765545698

Email: might_as_well_sign_on@hotmail.com

Education

Prattle Polytechnic 2005- 2008

BSC (Hons): 2:2 in Mediocrity

St Standard Comprehensive 2002- 2004

A’ Levels: Triviology: A, Pointlessness : A, Unappliable Studies: B
AS Level: Irrelevant Theory : B

Personal Profile


I spent three years at university, where I did very little but eat take aways, attempt to gain carnal knowledge of the opposite sex, and go out on the piss. I have extensive telecommunications experience, (making orders, carrying out cash transactions), due to the fact I called Pizza Hut at least four times a week while ‘Studying’. I have also successfully negotiated a five thousand pound loan with my mother, which I do not intend to pay back.

Subsequent to attaining a 2:2 in Mediocrity, I now intend to secure a highly paid job in ‘The Media’, where I aim to sit around all day on oversized beanbags, sipping frappachinos; indulging in a general sense of self conceit. I am lazy, financially sponge like, and am not prepared to adopt a vocation unless it fits in with ‘who I really am’. Uni pals refer to me as a ‘Legend’, subsequent to that memorable occasion I dragged a traffic cone all the way home/ got chucked out of the Student Union Bar/ Threw up on myself without realizing.

Work Experience

Obligatory Summer Internship – August 2008

Secured a six week summer internship within ‘Flexi Think’, a global PR Consultancy firm, thanks to the fact my Father is White, Middle Classed and friends with a director there.

Was ignored for most of the time, sitting in the furthermost corner of the office, Idly Facebooking, and chatting to friends on MSN Messenger about the time I dragged that traffic cone home.

Once was asked to undertake a photocopying task by a colleague, however fucked it up and consequently wasn’t asked again.

Part time Car Washer For my Dad June 2004 - July 2009

Have worked part time washing my Father’s Volvo estate for over five years, In order to placate his anger with my lethargy.

Personally coordinate the car washing process myself; failing to ensure the job is carried out in an efficient and thorough manner. Often leave vehicle coated in irritating smears, and never bother to clean inside despite directed to do so.

Once managed to pass off the car as ‘cleaned’ without lifting a finger, thanks to convenient downpour of rain.

Other Relevant Experience.

Frequently utilize advanced IT skills such as the “Delete History” function, in order to view pornography on my parents laptop completely undetected.

Must mention that I have travelled to Australia and Thailand; despite it bearing little relevance to anything at all.

Have beaten the computer on ‘World Class’ mode on Pro Evolution (Playstation 3)

Interests

Staying at home for as long as possible / never undertaking a hard days work/ subscribing to deluded aspirations of fame and fortune

Monday, 20 July 2009

What a Cunt

I was queuing up inside Burger King, minding my own business

When suddenly

This sweaty fat cunt in a suit barges past me

“I’ll have a Double Whopper with cheese meal”, He slurs, all pissed up and pretentious.

“Drink?” The Sri Lankan till robot asks.

“I’ll take a black coffee.”

Black Coffee.

In Burger King.

What a cunt.

Wednesday, 15 July 2009

Monday, 13 July 2009

Plans

Possible Plan For Tomorrow

9am: Morning Alarm, Wake up, wash, change clothes.

9.15 am: Eat Breakfast (Muesli, Banana, Fresh Orange Juice)

9.45 am: Attend Gym for morning workout (One Hour Weights, Half Hour Swim).

12:00 pm: Lunch (Tuna salad, pro biotic yogurt, glass of water.)

12.30 pm: Update CV, contact employers regarding part time work using internet.

2.00 pm: Take walk to High Street, hand out CV to recruitment agencies.

3.00 pm: Visit bank to negotiate overdraft increase

3.30pm Supermarket shopping (Vegetables, potatoes, chicken, toothpaste, flannel.)

4.00 pm: Arrive home, Check Emails, Update Diary . Snack (Rice Cakes).

5.00 pm: Undertake House Chores, (Vacuum living room/ master bedroom.) prepare dinner. Take out Rubbish.

6.00 pm: Evening Run

7.00 pm: Dinner (Chicken casserole w/ seasonal vegetables), Glass of Cress water. Wash up, Dry Dishes .

8.00 pm: Attend evening poetry class.

9.00pm: Read in Bed

10.00 pm: Lights Out

Probable Plan For Tomorrow

9.00am: Morning alarm. Press ‘Snooze’.

9.10am: Morning alarm. Press ‘Snooze’ again.

9.20: Morning alarm. Accidently press ‘off’ instead of ‘Snooze.’

11.00 am: Wake up. Change clothes. (Excluding Recycled boxer shorts and socks worn yesterday.)

11.15 am: Breakfast (Lion Bar, Toffee Crisp. Slice of White Bread)

12.00 pm: Think of visiting Gym. Convince self otherwise.

12.30 pm: Attempt to research jobs using internet. Stare at ex girlfriends Facebook profile instead.

1.00 pm: Still staring.

1.30 pm: http://www.bangbros.com/ (Wank)

2.00 pm: Snack ( Pickled Onion Monster Munch Sandwich. Orange Lucozade.)

2.15 pm: Afternoon nap.

4.00 pm: Wake from nap. Watch Deal or No Deal.

5.00 pm: Watch The Weakest link/ Anne Robinson (2nd Wank)

6.00 pm: Order Dominos Family Pack (Large Pepperoni Passion, chicken strippers, cheesy garlic bread, 1.5 litre bottle Coke.)

6.15 pm: Realise do not possess enough funds for Pizza. Frantically search flat. Uncover £3.15, (£16.85 short).

6.45 pm: Ignore Pizza man aggressively bashing on door.

7.00 pm Lunch/ Dinner (Chicken flavoured Super Noodles w/ splash of ketchup.) Glass of tap water.

7.15 pm Walk into rubbish bin, spill all over kitchen Floor. Ignore.

7.30 pm Eastenders.

8.00 pm Attempt to contact ex girlfriend, no joy.

8.30 pm Attempt to contact ex girlfriend again, still no joy.

9.00 pm Big Brother

10.00 pm Attempt to contact ex one last time. Cry.

10.30 pm Still Crying

11.00 pm Commit Suicide

Monday, 6 July 2009

Friday, 3 July 2009

The haircut with the unfamiliar Barber

I walk in, I sit down. I immediately stand back up awkwardly, as i have been instructed to take a seat in the adjacent barber's chair.

'what can i do - a - for you sir?' the unfamiliar barber asks.

"er, number three at the sides mate, not too much off the top", i say, deliberately emphasizing the latter instruction.

"Ok mate- number three at the sides, not -a - much off the top," he says.

"Yeah thanks", I reply. "just not too much off the top".

I sink into the chair, paranoid and anxious. This man has the potential to make me look like an absolute prick. Being the owner of a cuboidal shaped head, complete with a throbbing six pack above the eyebrows, means any severe alteration to my hair line could result in a aesthetically abhorrent disaster.

I glance in the mirror, He glances at my reflection. Should I make conversation? Do i watch what hes doing? How do people behave in this barber shop? Probably best not to worry about it.

Gradually, yet severely, he is eating away at my hair with his butchering blades.

I become more anxious. Perhaps a number three is too short. Now that he has already sheered off the sides, my FA cup ears have become exposed: previously submerged behind buffon like tufts of hair.

The Barber detects my despairing look in the mirror. "Don't worry, it will look - a - nice," he suggests, in what i think is a Cyprian accent.

Fuck. Not only am I paranoid, he can sense it. I am a living, sweating paranoid mess. After attempting to to start a conversation about football to which he responds with complete disinterest, I give up any attempt to pursue a policy of detente. We are sworn enemies. I must just wallow in aggrieved, wholly awkward silence.

The top is being eaten into like an obese American child devouring the contents of a milkshake machine directly from the tank. Fuck. This is crucial. If the right amount is taken off, I will look relatively swarve. Half an inch too much however, and my forehead will become exemplified by the fact there is no longer a significant island of hair aloft its menacing protrusion to distract viewers from it.

"Not too much off the top mate" I remind the barbering bastard, clenching the steel arms of chair tighter.

"Don't -a- worry mate," The Cypriot prick replies. But its too late. Hes fucked it. I look like fucking Simon Cowell.

As he brushes my neck down, I wait for him to present the mirror behind my back of my neck so i can visually appreciate the damage this shit back and sides has impacted onto my ego.

"Ok?" He asks.
"Cheers dickhead," I think.

Why do they even bother to ask? Its not as if he can do anything about it if i correctly inform him the haircuts an absolute pile of shit. He cant glue the hair back onto my fucking head. My stormy look is more obviously apparent than a eight inch penis glued onto the end of somebody's nose, and the smirky look a waiting customer gives me doesnt help either. The region of my forehead looks as though it could span across the entire russian continent.


"Eight pounds please", he asks. I give him a tenner, reluctantly telling him to keep the change. Ten fucking quid. The going exchange rate for any individual eager to transform their appearance into a potato headed solider serving in the Vietnamese war.

Hang on now. Calm down. Maybe I'm just being a pessimistic, self conscious muppet. I take one last look in the mirror before i exit the shop. It's not even that bad. Perhaps a bit of hair gel will sort it out.

"SHIT HAIR CUT MATE!", a builder screams from a passing lorry as I step outside the shop. Fuck. My over exposed five head glows a lobstery red.

I cant even wear a hat to cover it up. I look like a prick in hats.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

Tuesday, 9 June 2009

Monday, 18 May 2009

Tube Journey

I was sitting down, waiting for the Tube pleasantly when some old bag started slurping noisily from her plastic tea flask. Slurping tea from a flask. What a fucking joke. I felt like pouring the contents of my Coke can over her fucking face. The last thing you need when the electronic board indicates you have six minutes to wait is some prune faced bitch slurping tea down her wrinkly neck. Studying her liver spotted face closer, I wondered if she'd ever slurped on a weighty portion of spunk, after suckling on a good ol meaty bone.

Then again, Did the older Generation ever suck on their boyfriends dicks? Popular culture would have you believe it was nothing but tea, scones, and standard missionary back then. Or perhaps i'm just being naive.

After enduring four more minutes spunk suckling audio in my ear, I got on to my train. Thankfully there was a seat. If there's anything worse than sitting on a tube for an extended period of time, then its standing on a tube for an extended period of time. Some fat tart sits down next to me, one of her fat talcum powdered ass cheeks pinning down the side of my Jacket.

With a strained effort I manage drag it back out from under her Ass, which is like trying to whip a tablecloth from underneath a Rhinoceros. What a fat fucking cunt. She was probably off to Sloane Square or something, given her expensive looking handbag and snooty looking face. You may be worth a few quid love, but your still a fat cunt. Can't even sit on the Tube without annexing an entire portion of somebody else's seat territory. Imperialism of public space.

I'm too busy staring at some sexy Italian looking bitch to realise we've already stopped at Earls court, and its time too change, so I just about manage to jump out as the doors make that beep- beep - beeping sound but my trailing leg gets caught awkwardly as I make my exit and I'm sent tumbling to the floor like a spasticated dinosaur, the sexy Italian bitch smirking in a discerning manner.

As I make my way to the next platform there's a man struggling to carry his pram down the stairs, and I feel compelled to help but i notice hes with some Malaysian girl so I cant be arsed with the pervert. He was smart enough to use the Internet to mail order a chinky girlfriend, so maybe he should have been shrewd enough to use the lift instead. Fucking prick.

The subsequent interconnecting journey is even more irritating than the spunk slurping granny as im flanked either side by German cunts, who feel the need spout deustch garbage directly into face as they attempt to communicate through me. Thier language is as ugly as a dog's arse, and it takes the fouth fleck of spit to wind me up to the extent that im forced to stand for the remaining half hour.

It was a good job I used my Dad's freedom pass, and therefore didnt have to pay for this journey, as the whole experience left me with a taste in my mouth like somebody had shitted there.

Friday, 6 February 2009

Thursday, 5 February 2009

There are lots of nice things one can eat

There are lots of nice things one can eat
Like Nandos, Mac D's and KFC.
Stuff it in my mouth, stuff it in my mouth, stuff it in my mouth,
Increase the waistline that lies down south.

Wednesday, 7 January 2009