We had a photo-shoot today at the mag. One of the models — that is, one of the people who were getting their photo taken because they were being featured in our next issue — was a blonde 26-year-old female. Another one of the models was a 28-year-old brunette. Neither was ugly. “Dude, that blonde is so incredibly hot,” one of my office friends said to me as we creeped covetously from a dark corner. “No, sir, she’s not. The brunette, on the other hand…” “You’re an idiot.” “LOL, why? It’s kind of subjective, don’t you think?” “Not really, the blonde has boobs, a nice bod (he did say bod), a cute face — she’s the definition of hot.” Eventually, after some high-horsing from me on the subjectivity of beauty, we agreed to poll the rest of the guys in the office, and whichever guy’s girl got more votes, he’d get $20 (I work in a weird place). This, friends, is where my metaphor goes off track, and where I start comparing guys like Everth Cabrera to beautiful women.

The beauty of keepers is mixing standard fantasy analysis and our perception of how we think baseball players will be perceived by fantasy players. It’s not just, “this guy mashes I want to pick him,” it’s “this guy mashes, how much will my enemies be willing to pay for his mashing?” I agreed on our “girl bet” because I thought that most of the guys in the office would perceive the brunette as prettier — I applied a value to her because of what I thought others would think about her. Unfortunately I screwed up, but fortunately (or maybe not) I study fantasy baseball a lot more than I do girls, so let’s just delve into keepers before I stare at the $20 void in my impecunious wallet and wallow in my geeky lameness. That is, it’s fantasy keepers time.

Please, blog, may I have some more?

There’s a ping-pong tournament going on in my office today and I wasn’t invited to play. It’s not because they all hate me, but because I just started here — a magazine in New York — and the tournament was bracketed and made before I actually came on board.

At least that’s what they tell me. Little do they know, I often played in tournaments in my Tampa days, so them dawgs is lucky. I’m picturing them wafting shots back and forth like pure n00bs, giggling at the new d-bag who’s upstairs editing stories and deflecting annoying, frivolous emails from the digital team. “Hey Terse, do you approve of the latest SEO titles we put up for the latest magazine issue?” “Yeah, for the eighth time, everything is fine.” “Ok, splendid! How’re you doing in the ping-pong tournament?” “They didn’t have room for me.” “LOL YOU SUCK.” “I know… I know I do, Marc.” Perhaps they all dislike how I insist on being called Terse. I feel like David Adams — everyone hates me before I even get a chance to do anything good. Hopefully there’s not a steroided, crappy Twitter-user waiting in the shadows, willing to pounce and take my spot once his dead hips are resuscitated. I can’t compete with a 38-year-old ex-magazine MVP, I just can’t. I WON’T. Speaking of A-Rod, I think you should pick him up and use him for this year and plan on keeping him for 2014 and 2015. There’s still life in there.

Please, blog, may I have some more?