Email From Mystery

I received an email von Markovic (the pickup artist who goes by the pseudonym Mystery) in response to this post I wrote. I can’t vouch for the authenticity of the email, but the writing style and splendid vanity on display do sound like Mystery’s voice. I won’t reveal the email address from which this was sent in the interest of privacy. Anyhow, this stuff is kind of insider-y, so if it bores you you can go over to Andrew Sullivan’s blog and read about Beta of the Month Candidate Conor Friedersdorf’s continued fascination with game and yours truly.

Several points of your article are in err.

1. The mother is not, nor has she ever been, a stripper. She has been in Maxim UK tho. I continue to offer monthly seminars on picking up hired guns which include exotic dancers (and Maxim models).

2. My daughter is not yet 3, to speak of her getting sarged is in bad taste, hell it puts a shit taste in my mouth. Her continued privacy (safety) is my priority. Please refrain from playing with shit.

3. Deadbeat dad talk: it’s as if you have never met me yet speak as if you have. She lives in England with mom yes – close to family. I lived there around the time of my London bootcamp, then traveled to Toronto with them so we could all spend family time there for a couple weeks – we roasted marshmellows with my brother, sister, mother, etc. Then baby and mom returned to the UK while I did my SF bootcamp, LA bootcamp, some pitch meetings for a couple new shows, and a thing for comedy central. I move into my new place in the Hollywood Hills Sept 1. Mom and baby move 30 min. away with nanny (a gay guy) in a month. It’s difficult to be away from my daughter for sometimes weeks or more at a time. We video-skype to stay close – like living in the future. I do not live with mom presently, tho I’m having them living much closer to me.

4. My hair is gorgeous! 🙂

5. My nails look fine. Never had nail fungus, this is plain silly. Haven’t painted my nails black in a couple months tho I reserve the right to do so in the future. Or maybe even red.

6. Matador’s hair: yeah he’s had work done: he highly recommends the technology to those students who would benefit from it. Saying wig? Looks like someone wants his face punched in by a man bigger, stronger, and with more wealth than you.

Preselected: When I say I understand women (a mother, older sister, two nieces, a daughter), it means I get it. I get it.

Leader of men: don’t worry, while Matador would press you through the floor, I’m the guy in his ear saying, don’t do it he’s not worth it.

Protector of loved ones: my daughter is not yet 3. Keep her out of your marketing in the future please. What movie is, “fuck with my daughter and I kill you” from?

Willingness to emote: I’m hurt by your silly comments. As if I’d never read them personally. Such time spent will preclude you from playing with the big kids.

Successful risk taker: I may take risks with my career (notice the operative word: successful), but never with my daughter. She is safe and happy. Where did you come up with your conclusions?! Nail fungus? Deadbeat dad?

All this aside, pleasure to meet another person interested in the PUA. Mystery.

What do I do with the text I wrote, send it just to you or send it to my double opt in mailing list? I wonder how big the list is today.

Mystery – Sent from My iPhone.

I don’t know if he meant it, but for some reason I found his email really humorous, and even touching in a twisted way. It’s over the top, it’s all over the place, it’s… an emotionally charged powerhouse. Some of his points are strange (nail fungus?) but I think he was responding to comments left by my mischievous readers.

I would just add that, yes, you do have gorgeous hair, Mystery. And whatever Matador had done to his hair, it’s a work of art. Maybe he should shill for his hair restoration doc. Also, any pressing through the floor that Matador wishes to do should be redirected to superomega David Alexander. A good, solid pounding (face, not ass) would be the best thing for DA.

I don’t have any future marketing plans, but sometimes I wish I did. Rest assured, any marketing will not involve your daughter. 3-year-olds and moms wouldn’t be my target audience.

PS I highly recommend that all the new and befuddled readers who are coming from sites like Larry Auster’s and who seem to fall on the traditional conservative (read: beta) side of the ideological spectrum get up to speed by reading Mystery’s seminal work on the science and art of game. You may also want to read Magic Bullets by Savoy. Then maybe you’ll be equipped to discuss matters for which you seem to have zero understanding to date.

PPS On a personal note, Mystery is of my generation. We grasped the nature of women about the same time in our lives. For this reason, I feel a sort of kinship with him and his mission in life.

A Sad Day For America: Ted Kennedy Is Dead

It’s a sad day. Ted Kennedy, lion of the left, has passed from this world. A vibrant melting pot of Americans of every persuasion mourn the loss, and hope to carry on his ideals in their own lives.

I, too, shed a tear. With a lump in my throat, I have written a deeply felt eulogy for Senator Kennedy. Pardon the hastily penned thoughts, but the words came spilling out of me like a deluge.

******

You, Senator Kennedy, are the slime and detritus of fish shit and flotsam that collects on the stones sitting at the bottom of the Chappaquiddick brine.

You, Senator Kennedy, are the bloated fermented sack of pestilent traitorous lying filth who helped pass the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 that in its effects has been a de facto genocide by another name against America’s majority and soon to be minority native sons and daughters, and from which calamitous effects you have spent a lifetime hypocritically barricading yourself behind the safe gates of lily white oases.

You, Senator Kennedy, are the greasy smegma that rings the pustuled, syphilitic cockhead of a piss and shit-stained gutter bum washed up on our streets with the help of an unlimited supply of family reunification visas.

You, Big Fat Fuck Ted, are a genuine American Traitor, brazenly disloyal to the American people while blindingly loyal to your twisted, fetid equalist ideology, and who should be thankful a blessed cancer ate your brain to mush instead of a hangman’s noose breaking your neck in the public square.

You, Kennedy scion, are an Avatar of the Great Lie, a repugnant purveyor of damnable falsehoods. The people of Massachusetts shame themselves in endlessly returning you to office.

Benedict Arnold commends you.

MS-13 laughs at you.

And I, Dear Dead Leader, do the happy dance over the gravesite of your lousy rotting corpse.

Rest In Torment, fucker.

(and people wonder why I stay anonymous.)

Your Girlfriend’s Friends Are Your Enemy

Here’s a helpful tip for all the men out there: If your girlfriend starts spending a lot of time with her girl friends, and begins speaking of them in glowing terms, you are being slandered. Count on it. This is how girls bond.

When you first begin dating a girl you’ll notice that she’s all too happy to build a connection with you on the backs of her girl friends. Her cattiness will be a sound to behold. If the world were a scratching post, women would be shredding it to its solid inner core. Knowing this compulsion for betrayal amongst women, you can capitalize by joining her in the robust disparagement. She will appreciate your sympathy and you’ll instill that good old-fashioned co-conspirator feeling in her.

Where it gets tricky is when suddenly, one day, she tells you about the great time she had last night drinking til all hours with her BFF Bitches-a-Lot. Recalling that BFF Bitches-a-Lot is the same friend your girlfriend informed you last week was a skank ho, you inquire as to whether Bitches-a-Lot’s skank ho-dom made an appearance last night. Now pay attention to her answer. Does your girlfriend laugh at your roguery and basically agree with you? You’re in the clear. Or does she patronizingly chide you for saying such horrible things, and then wax eloquently about how wonderful a friend BFF Bitches-a-Lot really is to her?

If the latter, you, my good man, were last night’s scratching post. Your girlfriend and Bitches-a-Lot renewed their BFF love over your moldering carcass. Caustic bean spilling and thinly veiled innuendo were served last night, and you were the main dish. Your dog was the garnish.

Never EVER trust a circle of happy girl friends. If you see a sly smile on your girlfriend’s friend’s face, know that they spent last night cackling over what a buffoon you are, and, if the BFF’s white-hot jealousy breached the conversational etiquette, snidely insinuating that you are:

1. an unrepentant player
2. a man ho
3. selfish
4. an asshole
5. likely cheating
6. bad boyfriend material and
7. leaving tremendous logs in the toilet.

Who cares if all the above are true? The point is that as a man you shouldn’t tolerate saboteurs in your girlfriend’s ranks attempting to disrupt the good thing you’ve got going on. Single, overweight BFF’s are your absolute worst enemy, because their bitterness at being single and fat will only be assuaged by the cathartic release of wrecking your relationship with your girlfriend. Idle vaginas are the devil’s playthings. A single, fat BFF wants nothing more in life than the company of misery.

Unfortunately, there is not much a man can do *directly* to avoid the machinations of bitter BFFs. Stay a powerful alpha force in your girlfriend’s life, and she’ll humor her friends’ dangerous gossip games. It helps to remind yourself that a woman will never leave a man she loves based on the poison words of even her bestest BFFs.

If you want to be more proactive, an effective counterattack is shame. Women may have a bag full of shit tests and impenetrable bitch shields, but a rip roaring public shaming will bring them to their knees. The next time you are out with your girlfriend and her friends, casually ask the bitterest BFF how her dating life is going. Nod sympathetically as you mention how tough dating in this city can be for those of you who are very picky, and then tell her a good man who can appreciate her *interesting* personality is right around the corner. Remind her that when you were single, you got to catch up on a lot of hobbies, like kite flying and antique shopping. Hide your smirk.

Stop Worrying About Giving Women Orgasms

We all know from endless studies and surveys that women have a more difficult time than men achieving orgasm during sex. Many theories have been put forward to explain this mystery, and even to explain why the female orgasm exists in the first place since it’s not necessary like the male orgasm is for procreation. Upsuck theory (women cum when their bodies want to “vacuum up” an alpha male’s seed), bonding theory (female orgasm releases hormones that bonds women to their partners), and mate assessment theory (alpha males don’t hurry love) all sound plausible, but perhaps the answer to the mystery of the inconsistent female orgasm is a lot more banal than any of those exotic theories. It might be that women who were born with their clits closer to their lips have an easier time cumming than women whose clits are a long ways off from their vaginas.

So if your woman has a clitoris-vagina distance (C-V distance) less than 2.5 centimeters, she’s going to think you’re the best lover in the world, no matter how much you smell like ass (link sent by Randall Parker):

[S]imple physiology may have a lot to do with orgasm ease — specifically, how far a woman’s clitoris lies from her vagina.

That number might predict how easily a woman can experience orgasms from penile stimulation alone — without help from fingers, toys or tongue — during sexual intercourse.

In fact, there’s even an easy “rule of thumb,” Wallen says: Clitoris-vagina distances less than 2.5 cm — that’s roughly from the tip of your thumb to your first knuckle — tend to yield reliable orgasms during sex. More than a thumb’s length? Regular intercourse alone typically might not do the trick.

How funny that all the rending of garments by men and women over how to please women in bed might come down to a simple matter of the woman being born with the luck of a short C-V distance. This explanation is so unsexy, but it has the advantage of absolving men of any responsibility for bringing their lovers to orgasm.

“You came already?? But I wasn’t finished!”

“Honey, blame your parents for your large C-V distance. Now be quiet, I’m trying to get some sleep.”

Personally, I haven’t noticed any commonalities among the easily orgasmic women I’ve been with, other than that younger women tend to be better lubed and quicker to cum than older women. (Older = 30+). I’ve been fortunate (or extremely skilled) that most of the women I’ve banged had no trouble reaching orgasm. It’s too bad I didn’t know about C-V distance before, because my natural curiosity for all things beyond the pale would have compelled me to eyeball my exes’ C-Vs while going down on them. I’m pretty sure one of my Russian exes had the shortest C-V in history, if premature vaj juice expulsion is any indication.

The theory of C-V distance does beg the question — why did women evolve variable C-V distances? Why aren’t all women equipped with short C-V distances and free flowing orgasms? Maybe like other variable traits, evolution has thrown a mix of C-Vs into the female population to fill niche ecosystems. Perhaps women with larger C-Vs make better long term partners and mothers because they aren’t being tempted to pursue orgasmic release with every high value guy they see.

I do have some observations about women and their orgasms.

• Every woman has her unique “finishing position” which she favors for bringing herself to completion. They will want to revert to this position when they feel a big O is nearing the bend. There is no generalization that can be made about the finishing position, except that these positions tend to squeeze the woman’s box tighter. For some women, the finishing position is on top. For others, it’s ankles behind ears. Still others (likely those women who get off on the submissive aspect of lovemaking) favor doggy style for the cunt de grace.
• An experienced man can usually tell when a woman is having a real orgasm. The gina contractions and facial tics don’t lie.
• If you date a squirter, you will always know if she’s faking. Have towels handy.
• Moaning is highly variable. Some women tense up and go completely silent at the moment of little death. Others cry out to their god (“I’m right here watching over you, babe”).
• I once dated a woman whose clit was tiny. I could barely find it. She was only capable of orgasm through intercourse. Licking and fingering did nothing for her. She said the inside of her vagina was very sensitive. I took this to mean that she had a well-developed G Spot, which made it easier for her to cum from sex. I verified this when I stuck my finger up there and felt a large, ridged swatch of skin on her anterior vaginal wall.
• I have faked an orgasm with women a few times in my life. Yes, ladies, men do it too. Sometimes we’re bored of the endless pounding. Or you’re not that hot.

I have a suggestion for men who want to make their frigid bitches cum. UNLUBED SEX. Yep, don’t wait for her to mist up, just shove your dry rod in by surprise. The friction created by the intense pain of sandpaper sex will force her clit closer to her labia, thus providing exceptional stimulation. Many tears of love will flow afterwards.

Jealousy

Damian and I were out with a mixed group. One of the girls got very drunk on martinis (fast action truth serum) and pulled Damian aside for what I thought was the beginning of making beautiful music together. Later that night, Damian announced he was going home alone, and the rest of us were left with the job of escorting the drunk girl back to her urban single woman’s hovel, distinguished as they all are by mass quantities of pillows, toiletries, and shoes. Along the way, she mumbled “I just want to get laid before leaving town. How hard is it for a girl to get laid in this town?! By the way, what’s wrong with Damian?”

I though maybe Damian’s same night lay attempt had gone awry, that perhaps his game had gotten rusty, but no that wasn’t it. This girl was primed for his pistola, all he needed to do was say “I’ll take you home” and victory was his, and yet he beat a hasty retreat. She wasn’t bad looking, she had a nice ass, and she was leaving town for good in a couple of weeks. Christ, it’s like handing the pussy over on a platter, and garnishing it with an industrial-sized bottle of KY.

The next morning, I called Damian for an explanation as to why he violated the foremost single man’s honor-bound duty —

Never look a gift pussy in the labia.

— and he gave me his reason.

ME: What were you thinking? That was yours for the taking.

DAMIAN: First of all, I wasn’t attracted to her.

ME: Dude, she wasn’t bad looking. Definitely within your historical sphere of acceptability. She had a nice ass.

DAMIAN: I’m dating two other women, I’ve got nothing to prove. Plus, she was drunk, yapping like a chihuahua, and saying weird annoying shit.

ME: Like what?

DAMIAN: She found out through your girl that I’m going on a date with that Chinese girl XXXX. Then she started freaking out. [Imitating whiny nasally Jewish woman voice] “Whyyy? Why are you going out with an Asian girl? Is it because Asian girls are submissive? Do you want a submissive woman?”

ME: Wow. Awkward.

DAMIAN: Yeah, it was a turn-off. She kept it up for a while. Demanding explanations why I was interested in an Asian girl. I just wanted to get away.

ME: Her inner demons came streaming out. Must’ve been the martinis. Still, you could’ve just put cotton in your ears and gotten the bang. There’s a larger principle at stake.

DAMIAN: There’s a larger principle all right — getting a good, quiet night’s sleep!

***

Yet another amusing, and cringingly awful, DC dating escapade. The great thing about multiple martinis is that it’s one of the few elixirs that is capable of aligning a girl’s actual thoughts with the words coming out of her mouth. Never listen to what a girl says… unless she’s sucking down her ninth dirty olive.

It’s now my belief that most white women harbor a deep distrust, even jealousy, for Asian women. They see the Asian girl, like they see foreign women fresh off the boat, as competitors for the white men they have come to expect will bow and scrape before their precious white American vaginas. This jealousy contrasts sharply with the indifference they feel towards black and latino women taking their white men. The Asian woman occupies a special place in the mind of white women — with her neotenous features, softer skin, natural slenderness, and purported submissiveness the Asian girl comes armed with a fully operational arsenal of femininity that can bust through the deepest white woman’s bunker. And while most Asian girls who cross the racial Rubicon wind up with big galoot white herbs (see: Hope) or squishy pudding pop betas who look like Conor Friedersdorf, the impact on the white woman’s psyche is nearly the same as if the Asian women were taking all the alpha white men; namely, they sense their bargaining power in the sexual market is being undercut by a worthy foe.

Speculative stroll: The martini girl in this story was Jewish. Does the fact that Asian women possess intellectual firepower and educational attainment almost the equal of Jewish women cause the latter to feel particularly antagonistic toward them? You be the judge.

Sluts Are Not Less Discriminating

We were drunk. Words we would later wish hadn’t been spoken came tumbling forth.

HER: Amber got a fuckbuddy. She couldn’t wait around forever for a boyfriend.

ME: What’s forever? Ten minutes?

HER: There’s nothing wrong with having a fuckbuddy.

ME: Have you ever had a fuckbuddy?

HER: I’m just saying there’s nothing wrong with it!

ME: Holy crap, you’ve had fuckbuddies?!

HER: [open mouthed stare]

ME:

HER: [getting visibly nervous] What? I’m not saying *I’ve* had fuckbuddies.

ME: Jesus, are we talking double digits?

HER: Oh, like you’re one to talk.

ME: [thinking about the girl with the purple saguaro] You know, vibrators were invented for those downtimes!

The next weeks were spent with me recalibrating the pseudovirginal goodness of my woman. Clearly I had missed some red flags. Then I wondered how widespread the fuckbuddy phenomenon was. I wistfully pondered my past conquests. Memories that were once bathed in divine light suddenly acquired a darker hue. Emily? Yep, she must have had a fuckbuddy at some point. Julia? A stable of fuckbuddies. Kim? Doubt she could even make it through the day without a cock buried to the hilt.

I give sluts a hard time when they attempt to redefine the terms of debate with sophistic pretty lies. No doubt they do this because they know, deep down inside, that being a slut is gonna lower their value in the sexual market, and that’s the value that matters most, because it resides at the core of all other values. Nonetheless, my glee at tearing apart the lies sluts tell themselves shouldn’t be confused with animosity toward the sluttastic lifestyle. Sluts provide a valuable public service to guys like me — namely, a clearer path to sexual release. I also want to be able to identify them early on so I know to cross them off my potential girlfriend list, and to double up on the condoms.

There was a time, way back when I was a stripling, that I imagined a world full of slutty girls would be a boon for beta males. Experience with sluts has shown me otherwise. While they may be less discriminating in how often and how quickly they spread their legs, their rebuke of natural female restraint doesn’t necessarily translate to a similar rebuke of choosiness. Bad news for the betas: Sluts are slutty, just not with you. Sluts share the same target acquisition system for the top 20% of males as all women do. Hypergamy uber alles.

Reader Tupac left this comment:

Even if the women only garner a few pump-n-dumps out of such men, they are now keyed in on tenor, timber, warp and weft of the day-to-day life habits of such men and in so doing acquire a more finely honed radar for lesser men who don’t “make the cut.”

True. It may seem counterintuitive, but a loose, cavernous chick will often be *less* forthcoming with her sexual favors if the man she is with exhibits the tentative meekness of a beta.

Reader Arpagus:

And thus it comes to pass that sluts tend to be *more* picky than women with few prior partners, in a kind of twisted paradoxical way. If you are beta, don’t get your hopes up because a woman has had 80 sex partners. Someone with 5 is more likely to sleep with you, perhaps even a virgin.

Sluts may be pickier than chaste women about weeding out the betas, due to their spoiling from illusory experiences with alpha males, but they are far less modest within the circle of alphas for whom they readily part their furrows. That is why, when you hear a girl has racked up 80 partners, you should make the necessary qualification: She has racked up 80 alpha male partners who used her like a convenient sperm receptacle until something better came along.

Naturally, as you slide down the female attractiveness scale (but before you hit the 2s and below), you’ll find more sluts, and sluts more willing to slum it with betas and omegas, because easy access to their wet holes is all they have left to barter. This explains the phenomenon of fat chicks getting more sex than hot slender babes. In response to someone’s contention that fat girls have all the fun, I wrote the following comment over at the FeministX blog:

more precisely, [fat chicks] are too busy getting pumped and dumped. fat chicks have higher cock counts because in their desperation to snag a loyal boyfriend they open their thunder thighs for all and sundry hoping the easy access will win a man’s heart. the higher value women can afford to be more discriminating.

There’s more bad news for betas hoping to drain their blue balls in sluts. Not only are sluts more apt to restrict their no muss no fuss sexual favors to high(er) status men, they find it harder to emotionally bond with men, particularly men who are lower status than the highest status men they fucked. This isn’t entirely the sluts’ fault. If blame is to be placed, it should go equally to the alpha males who occasionally dumpster dive with less attractive women. There is no surer way to raise a woman’s hopes of winning a high quality boyfriend than to have an alpha seduce her for a night, give her the hottest sex she’s had in years, and then leave in the morning and not call back for weeks. Once a woman has had that faint hope instilled in her, she can go months or even years rejecting more suitable beta males in favor of pining forlornly for that one alpha male who will certainly, she tells herself, come around and decide she’s a catch worthy of commitment. And the sluttier she has been, the more fly-by-night alpha males she’ll have lodged in her memory to pine over.

A few years of getting her heart broken again and again, and even the most romantically idealistic slut will turn crassly cynical. And cynicism is the venom that slowly clots the lifeblood of love.

Interestingly, this is further proof that female obesity, just as much as the other factors I’ve written about, has heavily (heh) skewed the mating market against the interests of the average man. Not only does a growing mass (double heh) of fat women result in fewer acceptable partners for men and thus more intense competition for the remaining thin babes, but the fatties have likely poisoned their ability to bond with men because of their history of getting pumped and dumped by promiscuous alphas.

The fate of America may very well hinge on getting her women to push away from the table.

John Edwards Is Bringing Big Love Back

In an ABSOLUTELY SHOCKING, *GASP*, I NEVER WOULD’VE GUESSED development, chronic sleazeball liar alpha male John Edwards will admit paternity of his mistress Rielle Hunter’s bastard child, and he’s moving mistress and baby into a house in his neighborhood so he can watch over his harem take care of them.

John Edwards will move the mother of his love child into his North Carolina neighborhood so he can help raise their 18-month-old baby, the National Enquirer reported Wednesday.

The Enquirer also reported that Elizabeth Edwards, who is stricken with cancer, was furious when her husband told her of his parenting plans.

Furious, no doubt. But remember, this is the woman who stood by his side when he was apologizing so profusely for reaping the spoils of his alpha pull on women:

Edwards adamantly denied during a confessional interview with ABC News last summer that he had fathered a child with Hunter, and he said he welcomed a paternity test. His wife, Elizabeth, has said while promoting her book that she doesn’t know if her husband is the father.

Naturally, once the cancer ravages the last ounce of Elizabeth’s life force, Johnny Lawyersleaze will need a pussy replacement pronto. Having Rielle so close ensures convenience of lovemaking.

Would you buy a car from this man?:

I’d love to see recent polls of John Edwards’ favorability/approval ratings broken down by gender. Do a majority of women still give this guy the thumbs up? A significant minority? Bill Clinton certainly had the undying love of American feminists even while he was exercising his power over a 21 year old subordinate and oppressing her with the repeated thrustings of his patriarchal stogie.

This story crystallizes so many musings I’ve had. For instance, we now have proof that lying isn’t immoral, but lying while beta is. Then there’s the whole de facto polygamy angle, as amply illustrated by John Edwards’ harem building.

How to change a monogamous culture into a polygamous retroparadise in three easy steps:

1. Give single women the right to vote.
2. Let simmer for a couple of generations while betas invent stuff that severs biological constraints from hypergamous impulse.
3. Medicate sexless drones with Xbox and xHamster.

The cycle seems to go like this:

Enforced monogamy –> Emergent monogamy –> Civilization blossoms –> Emergent polygamy –> Enforced financial monogamy –> Decriminalization/Acceptance of polygamy –> Decivilization/Culling of excess betas –> Enforced monogamy (best case)/Reign of Chaos (worst case).

I believe this progression is unavoidable as long as human nature remains what it has been for millennia. Civilization has programmed self-destruction. Trying to stop or reverse this “bug” in the code is akin to redesigning the schema of evolution itself. The best you can hope for is that after the Great Culling there are enough sensible people left around to learn the lessons of past fools and to rebuild the edifice. On an individual level, for those born within the Great Culling the best answer is game if you want to make it out psychologically healthy and penilely satisfied on the other side. Or become a well-coifed Senator.

This reminds me of an admiring ode I previously wrote to John Edwards:

John Edwards’ wife lies for him knowing he was fucking and impregnating a new age whore while she lay in a hospital bed with cancer.

Somewhere in America a dutiful beta husband was just served divorce papers and subsequent financial ruin for no reason he can discern except that he didn’t excite his wife’s loins anymore.

People sometimes ask why I so deliberately and unapologetically act in my own self-interest and take what I want.
Because I know the score.
And you should too.