Jeff

noun / myth / urban legend) A walking flex. Jeff turns heads like it's his part-time job and collects compliments like Pokémon cards. Gender? Irrelevant. Sexuality? Shaken. Jeff is an equal-opportunity thirst trap. Born into Mensa, but raised by wolves without WiFi. Sometimes he sings like a caffeinated angel, sometimes he annihilates trivia nights with facts no human should know ("Did you know wombats poop cubes?" Yes, Jeff. We do now). His jeans? People ask where he got them. Custom-forged in a volcano and blessed by denim druids. People assume he’s in the military—not because he said so, but because his aura smells like gunpowder and dominance. His tattoo? A barbed wire so rusty, if you lock eyes with it after 10pm on a Tuesday, you’ll need a tetanus shot and a priest. Don’t play pool with Jeff unless you enjoy watching your dignity evaporate in HD. He won’t just take your money—he’ll take your sense of purpose. To meet Jeff, you must first win a street fight with two hookers, their pimp, and a broken beer bottle on MLK Drive while chanting his name backwards. Only then will the Council of Jeffs permit an audience. He’s the cock of the walk, the sultan of swagger, the human version of a cheat code.