Degenerate Dealer presents
He forgets to raise the blinds. He pauses for a smoke and never unpauses. He argues about which level it is with the guy who's been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. The Dirty Poker Timer does none of that. It raises the blinds, on the second, all night, from across the room — and it has a filthy mouth on it.
Next — 50 / 100
The Dirty Poker Timer
Six things it does that your phone's stopwatch and that free web timer with the pop-up ad do not.
Most timers count down by subtracting one every tick, and every tick runs a hair late. Ours holds the actual finish time and works backwards from the wall clock, so the errors never pile up. Hour six lands exactly where the schedule said it would.
Close the laptop for twenty minutes, or quit the app entirely and open it later. It comes back knowing what level you're on and how long is left on it — and you get one catch-up chime, not four in a row.
Digits that grow to fill whatever screen you throw it on, and an accent that warms from cool brass to hot copper as the night escalates — so the table feels how late it is without reading a number.
Give it a starting stack, a head count, and when you want to be in bed. It lays the whole ladder — blinds, antes, breaks — on nice round numbers, and tells you which break to color up the 25s on. Then it splits the prize pool before anyone can argue about it.
A dealer's voice opens the game, calls every raise and sends you to the break — recorded, filthy, and drawn from a shuffled bag so nothing repeats until the whole set has played. Synth cues cover the one-minute warning and the last five seconds, because those have to be exact.
A real desktop app, not a browser tab that logs out at the final table. Nothing is fetched at runtime, nothing phones home, and the router going down in the middle of a hand is officially somebody else's problem.
The whole night, one hand on the keyboard
Head to head
Dave has run the clock at your game for six years. Dave has never once been right about what level it is. This is not a fair fight, and Dave knows it.
| The job | The Dirty Poker Timer | Your buddy Dave |
|---|---|---|
| Raises the blinds on time | ✓ Every level, to the second | When reminded. Loudly. By everyone. |
| Still works after the laptop sleeps | ✓ Picks up exactly where it was | Is also asleep. |
| Knows what level it is | ✓ Always. It's the whole job. | Confidently wrong, with a story about why. |
| Argues about it | ✗ Never | Extensively. Cites precedent from 2019. |
| Announces the raise | ✓ 29 recorded lines. None of them polite. | Says "blinds up" once, quietly, while eating. |
| Splits the prize pool | ✓ Instantly, correctly, no debate | Has a spreadsheet. On his phone. It's for a different game. |
| Takes nine minutes to fold | ✗ Not applicable | Every hand. Sometimes with a speech. |
| What it costs you | ✓ $6.99 a month | Your Thursday nights, a case of beer, and your faith in people. |
It talks. Dirty.
The Dirty Poker Timer doesn't beep at you. A dealer's voice runs the whole night — it opens the game, it calls every raise, it sends you to the break — and the dealer has been drinking. Twenty-nine recorded lines, pulled from a shuffled bag so nobody hears the same one twice in a night. There's a mute key. You won't use it.
Alright, you beautiful bunch of degenerates — grab your chips, shut your mouths, and try not to play like complete assholes. The blinds are live, the clock is running, and somebody's about to lose their money with pocket jacks. Shuffle up and deal, motherfuckers!”
Blinds are up! Tighten your seat belts, loosen your wallets, and clench your assholes.”
Break time, you filthy degenerates! Take a piss, grab a drink, and make it quick — the game clock is still fucking ticking.”
The printed lines are a taste of what's in the bag; the clips are the real recordings, straight out of the app. Synth cues cover the one-minute warning and the last five seconds — those have to be exact, so they can't be missing. Pick at random instead of from a bag and a night with three breaks repeats a line about half the time. People notice.
Meet the dealer
Sal "Sleeves" Marchetti has dealt more hands than you've had hot dinners, and most of them were during dinner. He lives in the app. He does not leave.
Word from the table
"It raised the blinds while I was in the kitchen. Nobody waited for me. Betrayal. Ten out of ten."
"We used to spend ten minutes an hour arguing about how long a level is. Now we argue about other things. It's been good for us."
"A cartoon dealer yelled at me in my own basement and I paid seven dollars for the privilege. Subscribed."
Composite regulars, invented for a laugh. Any resemblance to your Thursday game is entirely your problem. Dave declined to comment.
One plan, one price
$6.99 USD per month, billed monthly. Cancel any time and it runs to the end of the month you paid for.
Still in the back room
The timer is the first thing out the door, not the last. Everything below lands in the same subscription. Progress bars are approximate and, in one case, aspirational.
Sal answers
Nothing bad. The clock stores the real finish time of the level, so when the machine wakes up it compares that against the actual time and folds the gap forward — across as many level boundaries as it needs to. You get one chime and the correct level, not a backlog of alarms.
No. It's a desktop app and every sound file ships inside it. Sign in once to activate your subscription, then run the whole night on a machine in airplane mode if you like.
Yes. Build it level by level, reorder with the arrow keys, save as many as you want. The generator is there for the night nobody planned; the editor is there for the night somebody did. You can edit a structure while a tournament is running and it won't disturb the game in progress.
Sal has been dealing since seven and nobody has tipped. He isn't rude, he's tired. He is also a drawing, which he'd prefer you didn't bring up.
It's a clock. It counts down and it makes noise. What you and your friends do around the table is between you and whatever your local law has to say about it. Play nice, keep it friendly, and pay Marcus's forty dollars back.
One click, from your account page, no phone call and no exit survey asking how we could have been better. It keeps working through the end of the month you already paid for.
You're supposed to be playing cards. Hand the job to Sal and get back in the hand.
Deal me in — $6.99/mo