He woke to find himself in a Dexteresque array of clingfilm and bubble wrap, strapped down so tightly he could only move his eyelids. For two days clock cunt had been kept unconcscious through the medley of drugs I’d been administering.
During his sleep I’d hired an empty garage space and kitted it out with everything I needed to restrain this wanker and used his tournament winnings to get it properly soundproofed too.
I woke him up deliberately so that he could see what his unsavoury behaviour had wrought upon him. Through a vein in his leg I’d set up a drip to slowly feed him all the necessary nutrients for him to continue to exist. If I chose he could stay there for a year, on his own, unseen and unheard by anyone else in the world. I’d also taken the sane route of murdering the taxi driver we’d used on that fateful night and firebombed the taxi office too. Better safe than sorry!
For a laugh I cut his face like Dexter would and then removed the gag on his mouth so he could beg and plead for his worthless fucking life.
I sat down and let him almost literally scream his heart out without speaking or ever looking him in the eye. As he roared away asking for help from God, from his wife, from the police and any other fucker he could think of I quietly turned the main light on, which focused on a giant clock looking directly down on my stricken friend. I then set up other lights around him so that it hurt to do anything but look directly up when he opened his eyes due to the fierce glares beaming into him. All he could see was that clock now, all he could hear was it ticking as I quickly and quietly moved around the periphery of the garage space and picked up the present.
To give the cunt his dues he had a good old shouting match with himself. At first fearful it wasn’t long before he got angry, threatening to do all sorts of things to me when he got free, which he promised he would. I didn’t acknowledge his requests or threats verbally. I simply sat beside him and placed his present on the other side of his face – it was a brand new cuckoo clock. We had 2 minutes to go before the hour was up and I sat there in silence waiting for them to elapse. For me it went in no time, for him, having no idea what was to come, it must have taken ages. He’d seen the clock as I passed it over him and on to the ‘bedside’ table – he must have feared the worst.
He needn’t have, when the 120 seconds were up the cuckoo merely cooed as expected then retreated into its home. I had to stifle a laugh as clock cunt wondered what the fuck was going on. He could still only see the giant clock above him but he’d gone quiet now. Shouting only every few minutes rather than constantly. He was either too tired or he thought he was going to die, either way I didn’t give a shit. I just grabbed another box and retrieved a second cuckoo clock setting it 1 minute behind the correct time, doing this in front of his face and then putting it on his free side.
I took the next clock, and the next, and the next and set each one to a time a minute earlier than the last until clock cunt was surrounded by 60 clocks. As every minute passed another clock chimed in the hour, very close and very loud into clock cunt’s earholes. After an hour he’d nearly lost his mind, screaming and struggling like a lunatic and by now I couldn’t stop laughing. I asked him if he wanted it to stop and he begged yes, tears streaming down his face.
“Ok”, I said. “I’ve made my point”.
I took the next ten clocks and changed the time by an hour on each.
“It’s ok, I’m going to let you go now.”
I moved towards the garage door and I could sense the relief in the man. The silence was a relief even for me.
“I’m just getting something to cut you free with”, I lied, as I popped the gag back over his mouth and opened the door. I wheeled a massive box in from the van I had parked outside and then shut the door again.
“Not long now”, I lied again as I removed the gag. I then used the last few minutes of silence to unpack the 240 other differently timed cuckoo clocks and then I shut and locked the door and then fucked off. That was 6 months ago and the arsehole’s still there! He won’t be calling the clock on anyone again anytime soon the prick!
In other Poker News today Annie Duke is still a cunt!
You can’t quite believe it can you? The sheer fucking audacity of it. This CUNT standing before you, looking down on you, expecting an answer to the kind of question that should normally end a person’s fucking life.
This american prick, with a tea towel on his arm and an expectant gaze, wondering why the hell it’s taking you so long to answer. Your right hand involuntarily reaches for the fork. The murderous possibilities of that move are far from obvious given that you’re in a hotel restuarant. If they had been our friend with the tea towel would have started waddling away as quickly as he fucking could.
Your other hand claws at the table top, gripping it ever tighter, in real danger of snapping it, such is your rage, as a million death fantasies run through your mind.
You’ve just been knocked out of the World Series of Poker Main Event for fuck’s sake – you just don’t need this fucking shit.
The Pain For You And Others Of WSOP Elimination
It would be dangerous to kill another hotel employee today though, especially in such a public arena as this. As that realisation goes through your head the waiter has no idea whatsoever that his life has probably just been saved. Your grip eases on the fork slightly but time still moves on so slowly, his question still doesn’t compute and your blood pressure remains sky high.
Your eyes narrow and your face reddens as you think back to the day’s first customer, a purple suited fuckwit telling you to have a great day as you stagger pissed and penniless between the Rio’s poker room and the lift. Have a great day indeed. HAVE A GREAT FUCKING DAY YOURSELF YOU PURPLE CUNT.
You don’t immediately realise that you’ve shouted that out loud, for the second time this morning too.
The braindead fucks sat around you are all staring but the waiter, although shocked, manages to keep it together, just emitting a little cough as he tries to bring you back to the question in hand. “Would you like your eggs over easy, SIR?”, he demands.
World Series Of Poker Death Throes
This interrogation is now so astonishing to you that you freeze in your chair. So many thoughts run through your head in so little time but they all come back to one outcome: a fork stabbed into the face of this wanker as many times as possible before the police shoot you in the head. This waiter now only ‘waits’ for certain death.
The arsehole has said his last words, and in a whiney, faggy, yank accent too – unlucky! You can finish him in a single second if you want, it just doesn’t have to be this second.
You’re a Terminator. You can’t be bargained with. You can’t be reasoned with. You don’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And you absolutely will not stop, ever, until your eggs have been cooked correctly and without any aggravating US phraseology.
You regain your composure. You finish your orange juice.You pick up the fork. The waiter dies.
Cuntspoker, in our never ending and selfless attempts to combine the world of cunts with the world of poker, will be bringing you our unique reporting of the 2012 World Series Of Poker with WSOP Gook Watch – yay 🙂 .
Click here to visit the forum for regular updates!
(Insane in da brain)
I got to get my props
Come and try to snatch my crops
These pigs wanna blow my house down
To the next town
They get mad
When they come to raid my pad
And I’m out in the nine deuce Cad’
Yes I’m the pirate pilot
Of this ship if I get
Wit’ the ultraviolet dream
Hide from the red light beam
Now do you believe in the unseen
Look, but don’t make your eyes strain
A nigga like me is goin’ insane
Insane in da membrane
(Insane in da brain)
Insane in da membrane
(Insane in da brain)
Insane in da membrane
(Crazy insane, got no brain)
Insane in da membrane
(Insane in da brain)
Now he had no objection to Cypress Hill, none whatsoever. The use of the word ‘nigga’ wasn’t offensive to him, just as it clearly wasn’t to the black guy mangling the lyrics above at full volume. Even if it had been offensive, to anyone, at any time, for any reason, the size of the black fellow across the way ensured that an interjection was unlikely.
The problem was that the volume meant that concentrating on work was a problem. The rap lyrics being spouted were not the only issue – from the man’s left came the shorter, sharper shocks of what could only be the sound of a man in agony. Once every 30 seconds or so a shout out of concentrated pain would be broadcast, occasionally making a fitting rhythmic backdrop to the ‘music’ from the other side.
In the name of research he’d watched (but obviously not enjoyed) a number of porn films and documentaries on porn in general. If you’ve ever seen these documentaries you’ll know that the ‘actors’ tend to whine about how difficult it is to bang large breasted sluts day in day out.
They’ll try and convince you that it’s a real ordeal getting to stick it anywhere you like into a walking suction machine that’ll pretty much do anything you ask for a tenner. Overall they like to point out that despite there being a raft of oiled, naked, lesbo sluts in front of them, lezzing away like duracell bunnies, it can be incredibly hard to maintain an erection.
Cynics might disagree, and our man here was one of those. He thought of those poor men, being paid to smash in Jenna Jameson’s back door as he hopelessly tried to get excited in the small cubicle in the sperm bank. Trapped in a space he could barely stretch out in, he prayed for enough inspiration to shoot thirty quid’s worth into the pot, hoping that if he reached the point of no return he wouldn’t accidentally paint the wall like last time.
However it was still too early to worry about that. With the greatest hits of Cypress Hill ruining one ear dream he still had to drown out the sounds of the bloke next door, seemingly wanking himself to death in order to get a few packets of fags. The magazine in front of him looked like it had been laminated. It hadn’t. This was no way to start a fucking bankroll.
my carer said i was very good and a clever boy and in the mornings she puts me in my chair and spoons me breakfast i dribble cant help after aksident carer says i used to feed myelf and help myself and myself but i get confused and have to sleep a lot and we went to the park today and saw a dog and a birds and went we on a bus when my legs hurt lots today but too much medcin makes me sleepy and we went home for my birfday party i am therty 2 today nd carer says i can use compter after cake after birfdat cake i can use compter and i have a hat for my hed to lean frward and oress the keys with to type and
crer moves weelchair to desk anf and i move head into keys to type words like now yay smiley face in the shops we bought some savory rice y dont they have unsavoury remeber when i cood walk and yalk properly i miss me sum times but i have cake now and cos im good computer yay smiley face so i nod my head and computer works for carers card game and it says i have a 3 and a too and i am a 3 abd a too and its my 3 and 2 birfday so i oress the cool button for lots of counters go in the middle and he has a big A and another big A then he has AAA but i win win i win i win happy bithdy to me i win and e says rude words in teh little box and carer is shiocked and i type unlucky. you. cunt. yay smiley face.
I was playing that poker once dears, a poker tournament at a casino or other such like scenario. Anyway I’d made my standard out of position raise with J2 unsuited when some fucker decided to go all-in! My tournament life was at stake here so I had to decide whether or not to call. Clearly I had a premium poker hand so a lot of you would think that the call would be obvious. I, however, being a way above fucking average player am a bit clevererer than that – there was a metagame in play here.
The bloke who’d gone all-in had done so 4 times before in the past 2 hours and had shown aces each time while folding every other hand so the guy came across as a bit of a maniac. I, on the other hand, had J2 offsuit thus owning two live cards and two seperate flush and straight draws, in other words I had him by the bollocks. The only problem was that he might get lucky and as a small ball player I wasn’t keen on getting all my stack over the line just yet. If you don’t go all-in you can’t end up all-out as some cunt once said.
It was quite a conundrum so I obviously had to think things through properly. The whole table went quiet, seemingly understanding the momentous choice I needed to make. The whole table, that is, except some prick who shouts at the dealer to put a clock on me. Put a fucking clock on ME indeed! I’d never heard such fucking nonsense before. I had an important fucking decision to make and didn’t need some cunt who wasn’t even in the hand taking fucking liberties. I’ve rarely known such rage, and I’ve been told to have a great day by a yank in a purple suit so I know what fucking true physical anger is. The dealer put the fucking clock on me while I seethed in my seat and with half a second to go I went all-fucking-in.
The cunt who’d pushed had aces again – AS I SUSPECTED – and despite me hitting a 2,2,2 flop the jammy wanker hit aces on the turn and river for quads over quads. WHAT A FUCKING CUNT! I retired to the bar having given the clock fucker a withering look. I’d never had a clock called on me before and didn’t intend to again I can tell you. I bombed down a load of Pimms at the bar and waited for clock cunt to get knocked out, he never did because in fact the prick won the whole fucking tournament.
He took his cash and walked out into the street, seemingly headed for the taxi office across the road. I followed him and in the office waited for him to request his cab before requesting a similar destination. He noticed me, shook my hand and suggested that we share, hoping that there’d be no hard feelings between us. I agreed instantly and within a few minutes we were in ‘our’ street. We got out and said our goodbyes and I walked a few steps away from him before stopping. I turned and watched him walk to his door and get his keys out. Before he could open the door I’d twatted him with a bit of pipe I’d found on the floor sending the arsehole unconscious instantly before dragging him inside.
As you may know I play a little bit of poker, I’m not very good of course. Any time I get raised I get a burning sensation near my tuppence that only a bucket full of natural yoghurt could fix but nevertheless I generally enjoy myself.
I’ve seen these new ‘anonymous tables’ lurking around the interweb for a while now and some sites have gone totally anon as it were but I’m not convinced. I was at the casino the other day, wearing a low cut top to distract the blokes at the table, when some geezer in an expensive looking suit sat down. He was quite a spunk as they say in Australia but ruined his image instantly by ordering a slimline tonic.
A fucking slimline tonic, what a cunt! I knew at the moment he wasn’t for me and long story short the prick had left the table before the aforementioned offensive beverage had even fucking arrived. He’d gone all in with fuck all and got beat in the first hand, utter fucking spastic – yay :). I didn’t get his money but I was glad he was gone, fucking arsehole.
So, what I’m saying is is, if you’re the kind of cunt that orders a slimline tonic you should be able to keep yourself anonymous. Frankly without that drinks order I’d have dragged him by the balls to my hotel room and ravished him. But, if you’re the kind of cunt that calls all in with fuck all you should not be anonymous. I will always remember this wanker as a terrible player which is relevant, but the poor man will now also always be remembered as a limp-wristed, ‘light on his feet’ slimline tonic drinker which is not.
So dears, I will not be playing on these anonymous sites anymore unless they let me take notes on the guy opposite, regardless of his choice of beverage. For instance, on Carbon Poker, my extensive ranges of notes include the words ‘Prick!’, ‘Cunt!’, ‘Shit!’ and ‘Arsehole!’, which give me invaluable insight into how these fuckers play – yay :). Not like on Bodog or Party or other anonymous tables where I can get violated by some fucktard calling me with 7,2 off and taking all my cash. As I said to the last piece of shit to do that – no doubt as he was drinking a fucking tonic water – you might be anonymous but you’re still a cunt!
Morning my dears,
You find me writing this in a state of some discomfort. Celebrating the winning of my first STT on Carbon Poker, I decided to go out for a Curry with my husband Derek and my younger sister Irene, who was visiting us from Jerusalem. Now Irene, like me, was born a man (until the age of 19 she bore a startling resemblance to Keith Chegwin), but luckily, or unluckily for her, she was still young enough and masculine enough to make Derek’s member only semi-flaccid. As I waited for my chicken vindaloo I tried to distract myself from their outrageous flirting as I flicked through the local paper.
I soon found myself peering at the announcements having spilled a drop of flat lager on the page. The moistened section highlighted the sad news of Agnes, aged 82, who’d left behind two daughers, one son and 5 grandchildren having died peacefully in her sleep last Wednesday. As Derek inadvertently started playing footsie with me rather than his intended target I started wondering what life was all about. What have I achieved, what will I be remembered for, what legacy will I leave to the world? True, not many people can say they’ve murdered a taxi driver and had two stints on Eastenders. Nor can many claim to have had ‘half an ‘ard-on’ while wanking on a webcam and discussing Wendy Richards.
While that is all well and good, aside from playing a part in the groundbreaking, cataclysmic, earth shattering fucking awesomeness of cuntspoker.com, I’ve become worried that my post-op work is going to struggle to compare. So, my fellow hoomans, I sit here now, scared to have my first shit following that fateful vindaloo, wondering how I’m going to change the world. If you’re reading this you might want to take a look at yourselves too. Obviously taking down the World Trade Centre is out, which is a pisser, cos that was fucking great. Maybe I’ll kill Sepp Blatter, rape a penguin, get over the fact that the bloke from Prison Break is gay or go to Vegas and win the fucking World Series of Poker like Brunson, Hellmuth, Jerry Yang or Peter Eastgate. Who knows?
As for dear Agnes, aged 82, who died last Wednesday, she has a legacy now. Even in death she has a role to perform, something that, thanks to cuntspoker.com, she’ll always be remembered for. It’s time for that shit now and it turns out I’ve run out of bog roll. Agnes’s final act will be to help wipe my arse. It’s alright though dears, I bet she was an old cunt anyway! Yay 🙂
You find me this week in Prague or Praha as the locals call it.
Now I won’t give you any tourist bullshit cos this is cuntspoker. Instead I’ll give you the lowdown on the beer, the multitude of fabulously breasted women and hopefully, in the spirit of Miguel and Clive, an STD or three – yay :). And what’s more I’m being shown around by Karel Poborský – yay 🙂 again!
So, as Karel and I sat down and enjoyed a Pilsner Urquelle and some potatoey scenario my thoughts turned to what order we’d do things in. I was quite up for trying to grab hold of a Czech lady early doors but, as Karel kindly reminded me, I no longer had a penis, so that was that urge dealt with then, at least for now! So fuck it wouldn’t you know we decided on a game of poker instead. Karel and I bought in but before we were underway I sensed trouble. Admittedly I’d had a few beers by then, and I wasn’t expecting the WSOP exactly, but when the cunt of a dealer gave me three and then four cards I had to speak out.
“OI! JOHN YOU FUCKTARD!”
In the language of a Brit abroad every man, woman and sex offender is known as John, everyone knows it. So when this prick fuck of a dealer didn’t react I was left with no option but to twat one of his eyes out with the heel of my shoe. That grabbed his attention but as the legendary Poborsky pointed out later shoeing someone during play is against TDA rules and we were swiftly thrown out. Turns out we were supposed to be playing Omaha but fuck it. Better to go out early with only 1 person murdered than to go out on the bubble having executed several. Well that’s what Phil Ivey says.
So with our Prague poker experience in the bag and the various pilsners being guzzled like fuck it was time to find some poontang. Clearly I wasn’t going to penetrate a local lady personally so after a bit of grinding we’d have to do what all lezzers do in porn films – call for a plumber!
With Karel being the star about town he soon introduced me to the top of my wish list – Jana Defi yay :). What a fine set of pipes as the pic shows. Plus she’s got the kind of titties that make you wanna stand up and beg for buttermilk! In fact only my friend AnalEmma could ever compare.. At first she was worried about making sweet love with a middle aged tranny but once she knew I’d once killed a german she was all over me. She worked my tuppence like a master and my legs were soon trembling like the twin towers as she brought me to my first Czech climax. I heard all manner of crazy sounds from the next room as Poborsky filled his boots with the Czech national women’s team. He then came back to us and gave us a good sorting too!
Now I’m not one to point the finger but this did not all end as well as it might have. Prague and its people were wonderful but I did pick up a nasty dose in the old vagina. Whether it was Karel or Jana I now had a regular green discharge oozing out on a regular basis. On the positive side (but not HIV I hope!) it meant I could self lube at last – yay :). On the downside was my fear that I might become the female Spermaman! In the unlikely event you give a shit you can even vote in our forum poll here. Yay :).
Being a post-op transexual, particularly one who used to be a man, can have its ups and downs dears. When a woman becomes a bloke it’s no problem, they just generally become reasonably good looking blokes with a nice beard, the kind of geezer who you’d drink a pint of real ale with and then make your excuses when they started talking rugby league. But a man becoming a woman is an altogether different matter. You remain tall, unnaturally tall for a bird, have big hands and an adam’s apple and of course, in case you didn’t already know dears, you get a lovely new vagina that can’t get naturally moist. Hellmuth tearing a new cranny in my tranny fanny would come much later though.
I was told after the op that the bonuses were that I couldn’t get pregnant or catch AIDS. I do wish I’d paid more attention in my post-op LSD haze as, while I took on all-comers in the African Cock Olympics in 2004 (like the African Cup of Nations won by Nigeria in that year) and didn’t get pregnant, I did in fact catch AIDS. If ever you find yourselves having your cocks cut off dears, please don’t do drugs at the same time. Otherwise, like me, you could wake up a little surprised to find that the heart of a philipino taxi driver has been transplanted into your anus ‘for a laugh’, small print eh!
Nevertheless, without a bun in the oven during the 2009 World Series Of Poker, I could only see the benefits of being a tranny as I received my cards while sat directly opposite Phil Hellmuth. I was dealt Ace King Ace Two double suited and, had I been born a woman, would have been as wet as Japan as I saw Phil make a gay raise. As is tradition among the slappers in my family I was wearing an edible thong that would have melted under the hot dampness of my excitement. Everyone would have seen the puddle on my chair as I got up to take the call from my latest therapist. It was bad enough that my second heart was pumping up my arse like a motherfucker so me soaking the seating area as I took down a 20,000 chip pot in the Hi/Lo championship would not have helped.
When I sat down again Phil was eyeing me with contempt and I knew I was in trouble. His reputation went before him, not just for being the Poker Brat but also for having an extremely large penis. Phil Ivey was apparently so jealous that he had to win $5 Million on Full Tilt before he could even look Hellmuth in the eye. Well I had Hellmuth’s eyes now but he wouldn’t speak to me. While he called the rest of the table every idiot under the sun and told his wife at length what retards they were he left me alone.
I made it to the end of day 2 and as the remaining players bagged their chips up Hellmuth came over to me, rested a hand on my pert but beating buttocks and went to whisper in my ear. I looked around quickly and could not see his wife anywhere. I let him continue.
“I have a therapist too babe”, he whispered, “and she’d never let me play Ace King Ace Two suited on that kind of board, even if she is a fucking idiot”. With that he smacked my arse cheeks as if he was playing the bongos and nearly caused me to have a cardiac arrest.
“Phil”, I replied, “either get your dick up my arse or fuck off!”.
“Honey!”, he retorted, “I’d rather smash in your front doors, let my nine incher of hearts make your INSIDE straight draw, let me tear a new cranny in your tranny fanny while my wife isn’t looking. Come on, I can dodge bullets baby!”
I defy any woman to resist that kind of move. I went back to his room and he immediately started slapping me around, the venom he’d clearly been harbouring for me since I’d taken that 20K off him earlier was really coming out and as he dragged me by the hair to the bed. I was eagerly expecting him to violate both of my pipes when he started beating himself up. The fucking faggot couldn’t get an erection. Neither my sandpaper dry snatch nor heart transplanted anus were going to see any action, what a fucking waste of an evening.
As he punched himself in the cock for the 19th time I rested my hand on his shoulder and whispered gently in his ear. “Phil baby, you know you said you could dodge bullets?” He was too traumatised to speak so could only nod as he pulled on his pork sword in a vain attempt at making the blood flow.
“You know you said you could dodge bullets Phil?” I repeated as I took the gun from my handbag. “Well dodge this you fucking cunt!” I shouted and with that I shot his fucking bollocks off!
Michael ‘The Grinder’ Mizrachi was found dead in his apartment today, having apparently choked to death on his own miniscule penis. The WSOP November 9 member had been training to fellate himself for a number of years since he got slightly better than his brothers at poker and they would bitterly no longer oblige. ‘The Grinder’, so called because of his tendency to ‘grind’ against small boys in school toilets, has had no shortage of fellatio offers from just about every fucking poker TV presenter or journalist in the world but, as a deeply spiritual man, he preferred to keep that in the family, electing instead to be rimmed by Chad Brown among many others.
Despite being a run of the mill spazztard, Mizrachi has been taken to the hearts of all of the poker press. A mystifying situation given that he has only won the same as a load of other cunts have done and is generally void of any looks, talent or personality. Presumably caught up in grief his older brother, Robert, could only muster up the following words as he wiped no tears from his eyes, “I’m glad the cunt’s dead, I just wish it had been my cock he choked on, the faggot”. The Grinder leaves behind his gimp, his Chihuahua ‘Precious’ and Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book of Poker. He will not be missed.
Precious, in happier times