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, 26 September 2009

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.

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