An Open Letter to the Scumbag I Played Poker With Last Night

FUCK YOU.

It's just shy of 4:00 in the morning, you self-important shit dick. But even if it wasn't, there is no reason on earth why it took you 18 seconds to make every single decision. Playing poker with you was less like a game of skill and chance and more like fucking root canal surgery.

We're playing for 33 bucks - not the crown god damned jewels of the British Empire. If it takes two minutes to play every hand because you're doing the god damned ROBOT and clicking your mouse in super slo mo, nobody is going to want to play you. I know I've made a note, and will never willingly play you, as long as I live.

My boiling white-hot hatred for you knows no bounds. You should accidentally swallow a Ginsu knife and die, horrible and slow. You should get bitten by a rabid mongoose, go crazy with rabies and die, horrible and slow. And then the rabid mongoose should eat its fill of your entrails and take an extremely satisifying CRAP right where your chest cavity used to be, and when the mongoose is done, the flies will come and use your now-decaying corpse as a combination hotel and all-you-can-eat buffet. Then your rotting, flyblown corpse, stripped of sinew, bones bleached white, WILL TAKE THE SAME FUCKING AMOUNT OF TIME TO PLAY A GOD DAMNED POKER GAME THAN YOU DID LAST NIGHT, YOU WORTHLESS PRICK.