Welcome to Grump Bag

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

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.