Welcome to Grump Bag

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

Sunday, 7 February 2010

Down the Gym

In the free weights section, there's a couple of muscle bound hulks benching 110 kg, the average weight of an obese American child.

Over by the treadmills, there's a bevy of thunder thighed females, dressed in identical pink leotards, sprinting a combined distance that could span the river Thames.

Meanwhile, In a darkened corner, there's me, flabby tits chaffing under a crumpled grey t-shirt, clutching on to a bottle of tropical flavour lucozade.

My number one priority here is to complete a 'work out', while keeping the number of raised eyebrows down to a minimum. Unfortunately, due to the array of sinister stains I am sporting on my baggy tracksuit bottoms, this already appears to be an impossible feat.

With Rihanna's R&B hit 'umbrella' playing loudly through the in house music system, I nod my head rhythmically, in an attempt to assimilate myself into the young, hip, gym going crowd.

Glancing at my reflection in the mirror and discovering a dickhead looking directly back, I stop immediately.

Starting with a light jog, I use the opportunity to perve on the wide array of fit young pussy working out within my immediate surroundings. Big, brown, white and round, there are more pairs of tits bouncing around than one could find in the most female skewed gangbang.

However, after three minutes and twenty four seconds running, I'm already fucked and am starting to emit a slight odour out from under my clammy arm pits. I swear last nights' chicken Kiev is bearing an influence on the must I am excreting, which judging from the disgusted looks of my neighbouring fitness freaks, is now effecting an area wider than I had initially hoped.

My boxers are already chaffing, and the fact I didn't wipe my arse properly earlier is certainly not helping whatsoever.

Dismounting the machine, I head over to the free weight area, and opt for a pair of 8kg dumbbells, which through lifting, I hope will instantaneously increase the circumference of my biceps.

"If only there was a machine to increase the size your cock," I joke to a unappreciative broad shouldered man, pumping his chest next to me, who swiftly moves to the other side of the room.

So I'm working out, I'm really working those guns, and I feel as if I'm inching my body towards physical perfection, despite being currently concealed underneath a thick blanket of saturated fat.

Unfortunately, somebody behind me is trying his best to put me off by emitting a deep grunting noise with every rep he completes: 'urrrrrggggh'. 'Urrrrrrghhhh.' This specimen is clearly using such grunts in order to publicize his physical prowess, and assert himself over other gym users as the dominant primate. Pity he sounds like a screw, being violently fingered by convicts, subsequent to a prison riot.

My Gaydar detects across the room what is obviously a queer, clad in a tight green vest and shorts which are dangerously close to revealing his giblets. For some bizarre reason, I cannot help but stare at his bulge, as my scrawny arms strain under the weight equivalent of two sugar bags.

Unfotunately for me, the queer clocks on, and gives me a appreciative wink. F**k. Not only is sweat now seeping from my pits at an alarming rate, soaking an ever growing patch on my t shirt, but I have also managed to attract the attentions of the only shirt lifter within a five mile radius.

Placing the weights back in their stainless steel rack, I flop onto a mat and attempt a sit up. My technique resembles that of a writhing beached whale, prompting sniggers from onlookers.

"Can you smell chicken Kiev's?" I hear somebody say.

Rolling sluggishly onto my front, I have a crack at a press up.

Failing that, I attempt a 'ladies' kneeling press up.

Failing that, I leave, take my phone out of my pocket and order a large Pepperoni Passion from Dominos Pizza.

Fuck the Gym, it's not work the effort.