Word to my house-rocking Quinnians!
I have heard your impassioned pleas, and ever benevolent, I’m adding two new features to next week’s column:
* You’ve cried and clamored for more Jeff, so… I give you ‘The JEFF Watch,’ fashion notes, gossip, and updates on Jeff’s latest contribution to haute couture.
* You’ve expressed your desire to see your new, outrageously awesome, handsome, brilliant, and prescient divinity strut his future-telling stuff… Enter, ‘OUTRAGEOUS PREDICTIONS!’ Where once a week, I will peer into my crystal pigskin, and give you one not-yet fact, that will come to pass.
Now, onto our spiritual meditations…
“Woman, Meet Man: A Users Guide To The W-H-Y-Chromosome For The Chromosomally Homogenous”
From the auxiliary preface to the epilogue of the introduction to the tertiary thematic index of annex 351.25-xiv.
Millennia ago, in the time before time when I created man and woman, Quinn Almighty had grand notions in mind: elegance, beauty, fairness— optimal functionality. Men and women were going to fabulous like Jeff and RuPaul. They were going to live in harmony and equanimity. The division of labor was going to be 50/50. The problem was, one of them had to be the baby-incubator, which would suck out loud for nine months, and totally ruin the whole fairness thing. I deliberated at great length: what to do, what to do, what to do… I decided to throw fingers with myself in order to determine who got stuck with pregnancy and childbirth: my left hand was representing the men with odds, and my right hand was working hard for the ladies with evens.
Women lost, I couldn’t help that. Men gained a huge advantage in the struggle for power. However, I took three steps in order to tip the scales back toward gender equality:
1. I hung Man’s most vulnerable parts between his legs, making them vulnerable to zippers, well-placed kicks from irate women, dogs’ tail, and children.
2. I ramped up Man’s sex drive and Woman’s self-control, and invented blue-balls, thus ensuring that woman had almost total control of the very thing that man craved above all else.
3. I wired Woman with incredibly intricate and complex neuro-circuitry so that Man would never figure her out, and wired Man with blazingly simple circuitry that rendered him as transparent as cellophane, and thus easily manipulated.
Unfortunately, however, I was a young divinity, and this was the first cosmos I ever created; I made mistakes. I used estrogen in creating Woman, which is a bit like coating every surface of a room with gasoline before tossing a match on the floor: once the gasoline ignites, the fire is going to rage out of control. Such is Woman. Utterly uncontrollable. Think of estrogen as super-juice that has an anabolic effect on whatever it touches. Her already complex circuitry inverted itself, replicated, morphed, twisted itself in knots, devolved into an infinite regress of fractals, and then reassembled itself such that even Quinn Almighty couldn’t follow the path of its so-called “logic.” Simultaneously, the amalgamation of estrogen and the limbic system created the capacity for the spontaneous and inexplicable generation of maximally intense emotional experience such that Woman’s emotions coalesce into a roiling, unstable volcano ever threatening to erupt in mysterious and terrifying tears/screams/scrotal kicks.
 I was grooving hard to KC and the Sunshine Band,
 I inspired one Elias Howe to create and patent an “Automatic, Continuous Clothing Closure” in 1851, and then moved in spirit to get a Mr. Whitcomb Judson to patent and market a “Clasp Locker’ it in 1893, which Gideon Sundback would finally turn into a facsimile of the modern zipper in 1913. In true mortal fashion, the lot of them ignored my marketing advice, and due to their heretical thick-headed obstinacy, it wasn’t until the 1930’s that the B. F. Goodrich Company company started calling them “zippers,” and the product became a commercial success.
 The limbic system consists of the hippocampus (believed to control memory), the amygdala, (controls fear and love), and the hypothalamus, (a gland thought to control the neuro-chemical functions of the limbic system). Significantly, scientists have identified an intense connection between emotion and memory, which might explain why women never forget even the most minute violations of their emotional well-being.
Inexplicably, estrogen deprived Woman of the ability to parallel park, prepare to leave the house in under five hours, and understand why a man getting kicked in the nuts is as funny the 5,709,977,435,346th time as it was the first.
My second profound mistake: I used testosterone in making Man. Utter. Bloody. Effing. Disaster. Besides being, by nature, at odds with estrogen, Testosterone, it turns out, concentrates in the gonadonal region and acts as a blood magnet. The first man I made had a diamond-hard, three-foot erection, and lost consciousness every 37 seconds because his blood flow was diverted from his big head to his little head. I reduced the size of Man 2.0’s member by half in order to permit oxygenated blood to reach his brain: he made it 90 seconds from erection to black out.
It turned out that the penis wasn’t the only organ siphoning off blood flow; Man’s stomach was also guilty of sanguine larceny. While I was eventually able to mitigate the problem in Man 3.1 and allow him continued consciousness, the combination of testosterone and Man’s simple neuro-circuitry created an unsolvable problem: each of man’s three major organs demanded such massive amounts blood flow that only one at a time could be fully functional. Cest la vi.
A further consequence of Man’s simplistic brain-circuitry was a nearly inhuman capacity to compartmentalize and focus on a single task regardless of what else is going on. It is precisely this capacity for soulless hyper-focus that, despite my best efforts, both tipped the balance of power in favor of Man, allowing him to achieve a measure of dominance in the ongoing inter-gender war, but also alienated Woman who cannot, at any time or for any reason, stop feeling.
Be that as it may, Quinn Almighty is just and merciful, and in his divinely inestimable sagacity and benevolence, bestows upon Woman— that beautiful, long-suffering, much maligned, mysterious creature— the means of reclaiming her equality: The Incontrovertible Truth Of Man.
 Brain, Penis, and Stomach.
THE INCONTROVERTIBLE TRUTH OF MAN
No matter how enlightened, metrosexual, well-behaved, or in touch with his feminine side a man may appear, his existence is fundamentally structured around meeting four appetites:
1. an appetite for fantasy football
2. an appetite for sex
3. an appetite for food
4. an appetite for having his ego stroked.
Each of the above appetites signify an area of great weakness in Man that you ladies can exploit. A single glance of your cleavage or the briefest side-boob feelsky will open Man’s wallet wider than the Shamu-sized gap Shonn Greene requires in order to keep from tripping over his lineman and gaining less than three yards. Moreover, you know how you can train a dog by keeping treats in your pocket? Try keeping beef jerky on your person. Mete it out to your man a tiny piece at a time in reward for particularly good behavior, and you’ll find that the same principles that allow you train your Chihuahua not to shit in the house and to come when he’s called, allow you to train your man. Tell your man that you’re amazed by how good an idea he had when he suggested that he run out and get you Hagen Daas instead of watching the overtime period of his team’s playoffs game, and he’ll be too busy congratulating himself for his brilliance to realize he made no such suggestion.
 “Ego” isn’t so much a euphemism for ‘penis’ as it is an intentional double entendre. Man works by directing 94% of his capacity/blood flow to whichever organ is dominant at a given time, and then splitting the remaining 6% between the remaining organs in order to maintain their minimum functionality. A truly enlightened being is able, over time, to generate a fourth major organ known as the Fantasee Footballoleagueo Dominus Majorimus.
 Airplane-sized bottle of liquor are equally effective.
 That the small dogs owned by women are almost always male is a clear indication of the fact that women are aware, at least subconsciously, of the injustice inherent in their subjugation to men. Didn’t you ever wonder why she was smiling so brightly when she took the poor four-legged bastard to get neutered?
While each of these ploys are time and battle tested, the surest way to control your man is to interweave them so that any strategy you employ appeals to two or more of the above appetites. And always, always, always keep in mind the one organ at a time principle. Engaging one organ effectively short-circuits the other two.
Here are some of the classic battle tactics:
Tactic One: Playing the Brilliant Boner
Woman: “You were brilliant to suggest that we go shoe shopping instead of watching your team’s playoff game. You know how I get when I feel sexy.”
Note the appeal to both appetite 2 & 4. In beginning by praising his intellectual prowess the woman stokes the man’s ego, and thus, while he is aware on some level that he didn’t suggest shoe shopping, his nucleus accumbens gets lit up like the Patriots’ secondary as his brain chants “WAY TO GO, YOU BRILLIANT, STUDLY STUD, YOU!” repeatedly. The woman’s allusion to the possibility of sexual intercourse in the near future guarantees that the man won’t realize he’s been duped by immediately short-circuiting his brain, and directing maximal blood flow to the member he know believes he’ll get to use shortly.
 I.e., the pleasure center of the brain, discovered by James Olds and Peter Milner in the 1950’s.
Man to woman: Why don’t you get two pairs, honey? I’ll hold your purse while we shop.
Tactic Two: The Power of Suggestion
Woman: “Ready to go to Soho for Tiffany’s Tupperware party?”
Man: “But the Bears’ game is about to start.”
Woman: “Ray might be there, and Tiffany might have nachos, wings, and Jell-O shots. You guys could talk fantasy football and nosh.”
Here, the woman has appealed to appetites 1 & 3. Of course the odds of someone whose name is also the name of a satanically expensive jewelry store serving nachos, wings, and Jell-O shots in a Soho loft are roughly on par with those of Jeff making it through You’ve Got Mail without weeping, and the likelihood of a group of women noshing on nachos, wings, and Jell-O shots at a Tupperware party in Soho even if they were served are equivalent to those of Phil Simms making it through a broadcast without saying something that makes you wonder how recently he had his lobotomy. Moreover, the likelihood of you getting to talk fantasy football with Ray is on the level of the likelihood that Kenny Britt wins the Sportsman of Award, because Ray has arranged to clean the gutters or get a root-canal or help a friend organize his tie collection three states away so he won’t have to endure the horror that is a group of women assembled to discuss plastic containers. The man knows all this on some level, and yet the power generated by the woman’s adroit appeal to two of the his most primal appetites eradicate his powers of logic by enticing it with the suggestion of a gustatory orgy punctuated by draft room war stories.
Man: “I’ll get my jacket.”
Tactic Three: The Expounding Sage, a.k.a., The Oblivious Chauffeur
Woman: I’m thinking of joining a fantasy league, but I don’t know anything about football. You’re such a fantasy stud— could you explain it to me while you drive?
If there’s one thing a man likes more than fantasy football, it’s the chance to demonstrate his knowledge thereof at great length. He’ll drive from Maine to Florida and be in your parents’ driveway before he realizes he’s been duped.
Quality time with your mother while your father makes your husband mow the lawn, trim the hedges, clean out the gutters, and sweep the driveway. All this on top of the twenty-two hour nap you got while pretending to listen to your man’s discourse on the nuances of IDPs.
Tactic Four: I WANT TO LIVE: Fat Man And Little Boy Times A Bajillion
You messed up huge. Your husband is coming at you, snarling, foaming at the mouth, eyes red with rage, the vein in his neck bulging. It’s a matter of survival. You sold the ’53 Porsche he’s been restoring for the three years so you could buy a matching Prada luggage set. You threw out his Honus Wagner rookie card. You got tipsy and told his buddies about the time he accidentally fellated a ferret. You tripped over the chord attached to his new 96″ flat-screen just as Eli heaved a Hail Mary with three seconds left in octuple OT, bringing it crashing to the ground, not only shattering the TV, but making him miss the outcome of the game. You told a girlfriend he had a “pez-sized” penis, and she told everyone else. In other words: If you want to live, you need to pull out the biggest guns in your arsenal.
Sprint for the kitchen, grab a beer and some raw meat, and then bolt for your laptop, ripping your clothes off as you go and repeating the phrase “Oh, baby! You’re so hot when you’re mad— you make me so crazy-horny I can’t control myself” like its your mantra. Grab the laptop and head for the bedroom. You should be naked now. Dive onto the bed, grabbing the jerky you’ve hidden under the mattress for emergency situations. Scatter the jerky across your naughty-parts, lay the meat across your stomach. Quickly! punch the URL for his favorite fantasy football website into your laptop’s web browser. Keep repeating the mantra.
 You tried explaining to your husband that you had felt bad about telling his friends he’d blown a ferret afterwards, and that subsequently you’d gone and explained to his friends that the guy working at the pet store had said that the ferret was female, and that consequently your husband had thought that what was actually the ferret’s penis was its bellybutton, and it hadn’t really been his fault or intention to put the ferret-penis in his mouth, only to give the ferret a raspberry, but he wasn’t hearing it.
 If you can’t think clearly enough to get that out, just started naming your lady parts, it’s equally effective.
There’s not much to say: you’ve just dropped the quad-fecta on him, a mega-ton bomb of carniverous-football-sex-flattery. If this doesn’t slow his rage-monster self, you’d better be packing heat.
1. His head, heart, and penis exploded from overstimulation.
Pro: You’re alive.
Con: You’ll have to clean brain off the walls, and probably replace the duvet.
2. It worked and he’s in his own personal Valhalla, gorging himself on everything he wants out of life, and you’re still alive.
Pro: You’re alive, if he’s good at what he does, you’re enjoying yourself, and you’ll garner residual good will.
Con: You’ll have to endure a thorough love-mauling, and you’ll end up covered in beer, sweat, and various meat-juices.
3. It didn’t work, but you shot him/kicked him in the balls/shanked him, and you’re alive.
Pro: You’re alive, and since he’s busy writhing on the ground, you’re no longer in any immediate danger.
Con: You’ll have to get the carpet cleaned because he’s bleeding/drooling on it.
4. It didn’t work, and you’re not reading this because, well, he ate you.
Here ends the lesson. May you absorb the entirety of the wisdom bestowed upon you, and richly prosper.
START EM’ & SIT EM’
The Rating System
I rate players on a scale of Jeffs, because Jeff rocks my socks, and my world.
One Jeff: the player is worth a gamble
Two Jeffs: the player is a solid but unspectacular play.
Three Jeffs: the player is a strong play
Four Jeffs: Start him and grin.
 My newer readers should note that my column focuses on looking for options beyond the obvious starts (e.g., Aaron Rogers, Arian Foster, Victor Cruz). My theory is that people don’t need to be told to start Ray Rice, but that they might appreciate a little help deciding who to play as a bye-week replacement and/or which player to target with a waiver wire snatch.
 Still no need to be jealous, Mrs. Jeff.
The Bills are playing the Patsies, so there’ll be plenty of points to be had.
Rating: 3.5 Jeffs
I’d like to extend a hearty welcome to Mr. Tannehill, who’s making his first appearance in the column. Do I think he’s a great play on his own merits at this point? No, I don’t. The Lilliputians’ secondary (second worst in the league) just makes opposing QBs look that good.
Rating: 2 Jeffs
Ready for some math? Here’s an equation: Ray Rice + Torrey Smith + Oakland = opportunity. Write that down.
Rating: 3 Jeffs
Dalton’s been off of late, but the G-men kinda hit the G-spot for opposing QBs: oh— oh— oh God!
Rating: 3 Jeffs
J. Locker/M. Hasselbeck
The Fins aren’t that great, and 4.24’s got his mojo back.
Rating: 2 Jeffs
*Note: Brees and Peyton are facing top 10 pass defenses this week, so adjust your expectations slightly.
The Bears still give up the fewest fantasy points to QBs.
Amendola’s coming back, but other than that, Bradford doesn’t have many weapons. Oh, and the 49ers are Uncle Scrooge-stingy with QBs
The Texans are hella-tough, and Cutler’s a bit of a headcase.
Dallas is the 4th most miserly defense when it comes to allowing fantasy points to QBs.
The Bills have the worst run-defense in the NFL FF-wise.
Rating: 3 Jeffs
The Falcons’ offense is potent, and the Saints’ are so bad at stopping the run that it’s sinful.
It’s hard to get excited about “Damnit Donald,” but the Jags are the 3rd most impotent run-stoppers in the league.
Rating: 2 Jeffs
Whoever starts for the Jags
The Colts aren’t stopping anyone.
Rating: 3 Jeffs
Whoever starts for the Steelers
Kansas City is terrible.
Rating: 2.5 Jeffs
*Note: the following studs face top 10 run-defenses: J. Charles, M. Forte, C. Johnson, A. Peterson, and CJ Spiller.
He’s hemorrhaging carries, and he’s facing the top run-defense in the league.
He’s facing a tough run-defense in the ‘Hawks, and HE ISN’T GOOD!
J. Charles (if he’s still banged up)
A wounded, under-sized RB on a bad team facing a very physical defense might be worth passing on.
The Dolphins passing attack won’t scare anyone, but the Lilliputians are at the bottom of the league when it comes to stopping fantasy production by WR.
Rating: 2.5 Jeffs
The Bills would probably give up three passing TDs to a well-coached Pop Warner team.
Rating: 2.5 Jeffs & 2 Jeffs respectively
He’s facing the second most generous team in the league to WRs.
Rating: 3 Jeffs
The Fins pass-defense is worse than Scary Movie 16.
Rating: 3/2/2.5 Jeffs
The Pats secondary: giving it up like Roxanne since week 1.
Rating: 2.5 Jeffs
Oakland has afforded more than a few average WRs statistically impressive games. And Flacco has a howitzer attached to his right shoulder.
Rating: 3 Jeffs/2.5 Jeffs
The man should be buying VJAX’s dinner every night, as the double coverage VJAX is drawing is making him relevant again. This week, he’s the WR2 on a team facing San Diego, the 8th worst team in the league at stopping WRs.
Rating: 2.5 Jeffs
*Note: the following must-start studs face top 10 pass defenses: D. Bowe, M. Colston, C. Johnsons, B. Marshall and D. Thomas.
 Pay attention to Tiquan Underwood. He’s talented and coming on, so he’s well worth a stash in deeper dyno leagues.
S. Rice & G. Tate
I despise Rex “I can’t shut my mouth for three gosh-dang seconds” Ryan, but his teams play the pass well.
S. Smith (Carolina)
You know those Rocky Mountain Oysters they serve in Denver? They’re actually the testicles of WRs whose manhood the Broncos crushed.
J. Maclin & D. Jackson
The Iggles are a hot mess, and the Dallas secondary is stout like you’re Aunt Hilda.
All Rams WRs
Basically, if a team is facing the Lilliputians, their starters are worth plugging into your lineup in a pinch.
Rating: 2 Jeffs
Why did the Bears let this man go? He’s facing Denver this week, too, who gets banged by TEs like they’re Pamela Anderson (they allow the 2nd most points to TEs in the league).
Rating: 3 Jeffs
The man may wear purple, but the Lions are the real sissies when it comes to battling TEs.
Rating: 2.5 Jeffs
Oddly, the Jets are vulnerable to TEs.
Rating: 3 Jeffs
If the play includes a football being thrown forward of the line of scrimmage, it’s a fair bet that the Patsies won’t/can’t stop it.
Rating: 4 Jeffs
* Note: the following stud TEs face top 10 TE-stopping defenses: J. Graham, H. Miller, J. Witten.
The Iggles… sigh. Dallas is top 3 when it comes to shutting down TEs.
I know this is an unorthodox call, but trust me. TE receptions usually come on plays designed to exploit gaps in coverage, but when you’re playing the Saints, there are only gaps in coverage. Translation: the Falcons’ vertical game is going to be hopping, so they won’t need to throw underneath.