EPTToday’s installment would be frickin hilarious if it weren’t also so bloody violent. Eh, it’s still a knee slapper.
Two pretty girls enter the ring to fight over one thug wannabe. One girl will not leave, killed when the other girl stabbed her in the chest with a kitchen knife and left her to die in the street.
It starts with a love triangle. Always best for bringing the drama.
He did it again, Sarah told her best friend.
Her boyfriend, Josh, kept saying she was the only one. He’d been telling her that the whole time they’d been together. More than a year.
But that day she found out he had been hanging out with his ex — this girl named Rachel.
All morning, while she suffered through school, Rachel was texting Sarah, boasting that Josh was with her. Again.
One of the leading indicators of alphaness is how many women fight over your asshole affections.
I’m so over it, Sarah said.
Maxim #73: When a girl emphatically insists she is so over you, she’s never been more into you.
He did it again, Rachel said.
Her boyfriend, Josh, had slept over the night before, then bolted. He swore he cared about her, but it didn’t feel that way.
Worst of all, she kept finding evidence that he was still seeing his ex — this girl named Sarah.
Playa gonna play!
For months, Rachel’s friends had been telling her to forget about Josh. She could have any guy she wanted.
It’s true. These pretty girls who pine for lowlife assholes have lots of choices in conventionlly defined high quality men. Yet they cling like baby chimps to their jerk lovers. Wazzup wit dat, B?
Rachel and Sarah hated each other, saw each other as competition. But they were more alike than either would have liked to admit.
And more alike to a hundred million other women. Once you strip away the packaging and the cocktail party fluff, women are essentially interchangeable. Players know this, which is why they swim in pussy while romantic idealists struggle to claim one overharvested plot of poon.
So who is this dashing Lothario the girls love with all their young hearts and open snatches? Meet Josh Camacho.
But the main thing Rachel and Sarah shared was Josh Camacho. [...]
Josh had curly hair, the color of coal, spilling across sculpted shoulders. Black eyes, a long nose, wide lips curled into a sneer. His dark jeans hung low on his slim hips. He stood about 5 feet 5, but walked with the swagger of a bigger man.
Josh loved posing for cell phone portraits: flexing his biceps, waving a gun, showing off the tattoo that arcs across his back in inch-high Gothic letters: CAMACHO.
While seeing both Sarah and Rachel, Josh kept up a relationship with a third teenager, a girl he called “my baby mama.” They’d had a son together. He spent time with the baby but didn’t pay child support.
For a while, in high school, Josh cooked at Chick-fil-A and Pollo Tropical. But after graduation, he didn’t go to college, didn’t have a steady job or a car.
Chick-fil-A! That’s high status, ladies.
Here is a photo of the three lovebirds:
So what does this guy bring to the table? Let’s see…
Good looks? Not really. He’s got the skinny man six pack going for him, though. And of course the… ahem… exotic allure.
Money? Nope.
Job status? No.
Social status? Not any societally approved status. But he does have multiple women chasing him, which is a powerful form of social status. In fact, the most powerful kind.
Fame? Not when this was going down. But now he’s been preselected through the roof! Go long on his future lay rate.
Kindness, emotional support, and domestic chore splitting? No, no and fuck no.
Looks to me like this guy doesn’t offer women much of anything, if we go by what women — and the entire cultural apparatus — tell us that men should be offering them. But wait, there’s more. Here is what Senõr Camacho *does* bring to the table:
A cocky smirk. Slay lady, slay.
A righteous tattoo. Because how better to advertise your reproductive fitness than a self-referential tribute etched into your back?
A cool, unflustered demeanor. He knows the pussy is coming, so why sweat it?
And game. Oh yes, my friends, this kid has got game, and got it good. Keep reading for a prime example.
A lot of doubters of the efficacy of game insist that game is a charade that only works in the short term to fool women, and that women will eventually figure out the man doesn’t have “real” high status. Stories like this put the lie to that thinking. Game is its own status; the mere application of game is a demonstration of status, and not just a proxy for status. A cocky smirk and a devil-may-care attitude is as much real male status as a big bankroll. Often, it’s higher status. See: Mark Zuckerberg. This loser thug gets more and higher quality — yes, HIGHER QUALITY — pussy than a fucking billionaire.
And the continual application of game causes it to become second nature, an unthinking process, so that it is no longer a deliberate mimicking of the alpha traits women love but an extension of a man’s nature. Josh Camacho may have been born with some natural game, but undoubtedly his first successes with women reinforced whatever latent confidence he had, and the smirk that started as an affect soon became a subconscious reflection of his weighty ballsack and supercharged ego. Game will do the same for any man; the successes with women build on each other until your alpha pose isn’t a pose anymore. The opposite is also true: continual failures with women will build on each other until the latent, baby beta in you grows and consumes your soul.
Conclusion: if you want to nail good-looking women as efficiently as possible, and to keep them around fighting for your attention, start with learning game.
Game/charisma — One to six months to begin seeing results.
Money — Five to fifty years to earn enough to make a difference in attracting women.
High status professional career — Four to twelve years slogging through academia for the proper credentials.
Fame — Infinitesimally low odds.
Good looks — Luck. Or plastic surgery (see: money).
It’s a no-brainer.
Furthermore, if you want to bang the HOTTEST babes, learn uncaring asshole game. The hotter the girl, the more she will tingle for an unrepentant asshole. Corollary: if you want to date haggard cougars who’ve been plunged like a backed up toilet for twenty years and would settle for any old kind-hearted beta to help them raise their bastard spawn, then skip the asshole game. It’s overkill.
What was it about Josh that was so alluring? What made the girls swoon and dream of him at night and exclaim their undying love and tell their friends and family that “He’s special. You don’t see what I see in him” and stab a competitor in the heart in a jealous rage?
Well, here’s a telling glimpse at the source of his power:
Sarah texted Josh.1:06 p.m.: “Whatever Josh, you get so mad at me for everything but you don’t give a shit when she puts something up or says something. You always believe her.”
1:08 p.m. “It’s like no matter what I do she’s always that much better.”
1:13 p.m. “All we fight about is her or something that has to do with her, and it sucks. I hate fighting with you . . . I love you so much, but this shit hurts.”
Hours passed. Sarah tried again.
6:36 p.m. “You say you love me, but you don’t even have the decency to text me back?”
Finally, at 8:02 p.m., Josh typed, “Bring the movies.”
“Bring the movies.” Step aside, Skittles Man, there’s a new kid in town — Bring the Movies Man. This kid has mastered laconic text game. Overgaming man should take note. In the future, whenever I hit a stumbling block with a woman I’m trying to bed, I’ll remember the philosophy of “bring the movies”, and instantly my game will tighten and my ladykiller attitude will reassert itself.
Damn this chick isn’t calling me back? Wait… bring the movies!
Three dates and we still haven’t banged… bring the movies!
How do I reply to this weird text from her? Bring the movies!
She’s trying to make me jealous by flirting with another guy. Bring the movies!
She refuses to do anal. Bring the movies!
What else did Josh Camacho have going for him that girls found irresistible? He understood female psychology, and used that knowledge to his adavantage.
“When a teenage girl feels another girl is intruding on her territory, when she feels someone is disrespecting her, those are the things that upset them most.”
Josh Camacho may have understood this. Though he later denied saying it, his girlfriends remember him declaring, “If you love me, you’ll fight for me.”
Is this manipulation? Or romance? Whichever it is, in-demand girls can’t get enough of it.
Sarah was her dad’s sidekick. He took her to karate classes, Lightning games, Keith Urban concerts. She rode beside him in his cab, blaring the radio, singing country songs.
“Sarah loved to sing and dance,” said Danielle Eyermann, her friend since preschool. “She was always making up these crazy moves, pretending she was Britney Spears.”
Sarah also loved the cock of badboys. Like most hot chicks.
What I just wrote above is harsh, but necessary. The sugar and spice veneer needs to be stripped to the knotted wood below. Fathers across America need to understand what motivates their blossoming daughters, what primal forces shape their decisions and their reckless impertinence. For without that understanding, many parents will continue being hoodwinked by the predators in the weeds. And the predator isn’t who they think it is…
it’s their own daughters’ ids.
“[Sarah] just fell in love with [Josh Camacho], right then,” Amber said.
He said his name was Josh. Soon, he would be a senior at Pinellas Park High.
Two months later, Sarah told her parents she wasn’t sure she still wanted to be a veterinarian.
She didn’t know what she wanted to do, really. Except transfer to Pinellas Park.
Feminists wept. And yet, I’m sure they’ll find some way to rationalize the patriarchy for being at fault of dashing this young girl’s career dreams. Must be stereotype threat, or something.
Josh’s command of game is obivous:
Josh and Sarah flirted through the summer. But that fall at Pinellas Park High, he would hardly acknowledge her. He would just cut his eyes at her, Amber said, tip his chin.
In November, they finally got together. But even then, “he would never hold her hand or walk with her, claim her in front of other people,” Amber said. “When they were alone, he was all over her.”
PDA is beta. Josh understood this.
Everyone said Josh was Sarah’s first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first everything. He made her feel beautiful, like she mattered.
But her friends were worried. The first sign was when Sarah started wearing pants. Sarah always wore shorts. Even in winter.
“Josh didn’t want other guys to see her legs,” Amber said. “He started telling her who she could hang out with, who she could talk to.”
Chicks like to be led by men with psychosocial dominance. Josh understood this.
Sarah started spending all her time with Josh. She was so scared of losing him that she was losing herself.
Chicks love the drama of unstable relationships. Josh understood this.
Josh saw himself as tough and streetwise. Sarah pretended she was too. On her cell phone, she stored photos of Josh apparently smoking pot, Josh waving a gun. She downloaded hip-hop songs like Stop Callin’ Me and Chopped N Skrewed.
Chicks love men with strong identities. Josh understood this.
Where was Sarah’s father in all this?
She begged her dad for a pit bull. “You gotta be joking!” he remembers saying. He referred to Josh as “the rat.” He kept telling her, “That boy is no good.”
“But she was in love,” Charlie Ludemann said. “You can’t do nothing about a teenage girl in love.”
“The rat”. Pretty accurate description. Ok, so the father was aware the kid was a loser. But he sounds stupid — “can’t do nothing” — so it’s likely he didn’t have the brainpower to figure out a plan of action. Too bad, because there is something you can do about your teen daughter in love with a badboy…
You can ritualistically humiliate him in front of her. Nothing drains the passion from a girl’s love faster than a public diminution in her lover’s status.
Let’s see if the father took my advice:
He couldn’t keep Sarah away from Josh, so he invited Josh over for dinner, took him to ball games. To keep an eye on him.
“Don’t let nothing happen to her,” he said.
Nope. Instead, he elevated the kid’s status and welcomed him into the family. Dumbass. So how’d that “don’t let nothing happen to her” work out for you, pops?
Sarah had never been in any kind of trouble, but now that started to change.
In the first six months she was with Josh, police interviewed her six times, all over public confrontations. She and Josh screamed at each other at intersections. Yelled at Josh’s baby mama in the parking lot of the movies. Once, Sarah said Josh had punched her in the face and he admitted it. Her parents wanted her to press charges, but Sarah wouldn’t.
Chicks fall in love with men who hit them ALL THE TIME. It’s the dirtiest little secret about female psychology that the feminists try so desperately to keep hidden from public consciousness. I’m not surprised Sarah balked at pressing charges.
The next time her name was in a police report, Rachel’s was in it too.
Cat fights are sexy until someone’s pierced heart is spurting blood onto the street.
Soon a comment appeared under Rachel’s post. It suggested that Josh had “found better.”
It was from Sarah.
The biggest misogynists are other women.
Sarah didn’t feel she was worthy of Josh. Without a job or a car, how could she compete? Plus, she told her friends, she still had a curfew!
Rachel is so much prettier, she thought.
But she had already given everything to this guy — her senior year, her heart, her virginity. If he didn’t want her anymore, who would?
Rachel was cocky. How could Josh want anyone else? Look at her, she had her own car, her own apartment.
She was so much prettier than Sarah.
Camacho was playing these two girls like a fiddle. Master game. And all it required was an aloof attitude, an amused demeanor, and a terse communication style.
About 11 p.m., the time Sarah was supposed to be home, she and Josh were playing Wii at his sister’s house when headlights pierced the windows.
Josh recognized the car: Rachel’s red Saturn.
“Now I know why you’re not talking to me — because you got her,” Rachel texted Josh.
“That’s right,” typed Josh.
Alpha. No apology, no dissembling. If you thought that would turn off the girl, you thought wrong. The Betas of the Month winners could learn from this kid.
It’s a wonder [Camacho] had the dexterity: By then, he later admitted, he had thrown back five vodka shots and smoked seven White Owl blunts of marijuana.
“I don’t like you no more. Why are you down this street? Go home.”
- Roissy
