(A self-portrait drawn by Derek Jacobs at the behest of his anger management counsellor. ‘I’m the most, chilled, laid-back, happy-go-lucky guy that ever lived,’ said Jacobs when presenting the work to his therapist. Minutes later, Jacobs was spotted in a Blades & Bows purchasing a high-powered crossbow with telescopic sights)
IN A BOLD attempt to gain control over his notorious hair-trigger temper, local man Derek Jacobs agreed to sign up for another set of anger management classes. ‘Look, he’s a really sweet, nice guy,’ said his wife Amelia. ‘But he’s just so thin-skinned sometimes and the slightest thing can set him off. I’m sick of me and the kids having to walk on eggshells around him the whole time. The situation needs to resolved once and for all,’ she concluded while prominently affixing Derek’s class schedule to the fridge with random words from a fridge poetry set.
‘Fucking fridge poetry,’ fumed Derek under his breath just outside of his wife’s earshot. ‘Who the fuck buys that shit? It just ends up being sappy bullshit like “soul is beautiful arc of rain kisses” or something. It’s enough to make you want to stick forks in your knees.’
According to best friend and longtime drinking buddy James Harris, ‘Derek is one of the funniest, smartest people I know.’ Harris had just settled in behind a draught of lager while waiting for Jacobs to join him at a local bar. ‘He’s got this great, bone-dry sense of humour. Really sarcastic. Absolutely cracks me up. But sometimes he just seems to take little things a bit too seriously. The other day he was reading the newspaper and just completely lost his shit because a story about a standoff between two gangs mentioned that cops were able to “diffuse” the situation. I mean, who cares?’
‘I care,’ snarled Derek. ‘It’s fucking “defuse”,’ he hissed. ‘How fucking hard is it to get that right? “Diffuse” is what light does; “defuse” is what you do to a tense situation. You know, like you defuse a bomb?’ Derek took a long pull on his beer. ‘You’re a professional fucking journalist who’s presumably been to university and you have zero command over the English language? It’s fucking embarrassing. You should be shot.’ The situation escalated when Jacobs scanned the menu for something to eat. ‘The balsamic reduction “compliments” the lamb? Are you fucking kidding me? What, does the sauce say “looking good today, lambchops!” Jesus.’
‘So, uh, how are those anger management classes going?’ enquired Harris. ‘Jesus Christ, don’t get me started,’ seethed Jacobs. ‘Here’s this fucking “life coach” affecting this unbelievably contrived “Zen” demeanour and regurgitating the serenity prayer. For fuck’s sake, I’m paying this prick 750 bucks an hour and all he can do is spout fortune-cookie clichés. Jesus.’ After his appreciative laughter had subsided, Harris told Jacobs that maybe he shouldn’t take such ‘stupid little things’ seriously which elicited a heated response from Jacobs. ‘They’re not “stupid little things”. This is fundamental shit. If people can’t be bothered to get the basics right how can we expect them to fix the big shit?’
Later in the evening Jacobs had Harris in stitches when commenting on a fellow bar-patron’s prominent mullet haircut. After reeling off an impressive array of hilarious hillbilly jokes, Harris, not for the first time, told Jacobs he should totally be a standup comedian. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ concurred Jacobs. ‘I mean, if that cunt with the mud-flap fell on his face right now and gouged his eye out on a broken beer bottle it will be the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.’ Harris was about to say ‘that’s not quite what I meant’ but decided instead to quietly sip his beer.
