Tuesday, September 29, 2009


Disclaimer: I ripped this one off in fifteen minutes and didn't bother editing it so this one time: SHUT YOUR GRAMMATICALLY CORRECT COCK CAVES!

So I'm sitting here on the eve of my thirty second birthday and I'm feeling kind of nostalgic and a little melancholy. You know the drill, just kind of thinking about what the previous years have been like and what may be expected. I have to admit that I'm in a pretty good place right now financially and emotionally but I can definately see some clouds on the horizon. I'm sure I'll be able to handle it with the support of my family (my wife and kids) but, unfortunately I'm going to have to be the adult and insert myself into other peoples business who should be acting far more mature than I. I'll cover this in a subsequent post I'm sure. I actually had something completely different that I was going to post tonight but since I'm feeling a little reflective, I'm going to do this instead.

It's always been facinating to me to hear about other peoples high school experiences and how they were so awesome and it would be so cool to see all of those people again. I look through their high school yearbooks at all the comments and at all the pictures of them and their friends and am genuinely surprised that people seem to have enjoyed it so much. You see it's because I absolutely, unquestionably, passionately, hated high school. Honestly, I hated highschool so much that the thought of attending a renunion never even crossed my mind. Out of all the people I knew during that time I can think of about five that I would ever care to speak to again (yes, Kim, you're one of them). Of course my high school experience has a lot to do with my distain for those hallowed halls. That is, besides the condescending teachers and the waste of time that many of the classes were. To keep things relatively brief I'll just hit the high points.

I was adopted for the second time while I was in the eighth grade. While that may be a story for another day it should go without saying that being on the cusp of high school, in a new city, with no friends and a somewhat new family does not a socially adept Admin make. I struggled to fit in, fell in with a bad crowd, dropped out in the second half of grade nine, moved out of my parents house, drugs, alcohol; you know, that old chestnut. In grade ten I faced the academic challenges and found them lacking, fucked around, got put on Ritalin, didn't need it, wheeee high, got a new group of friends who were much better for me but: yay drugs, started dating a girl, settled down and attended class. Grade eleven wasn't bad, perfect attendance, grew into my hotness, still dating the girl, sexy times, less drugs, honour role, job, car etc. Grade twelve was relatively the same with the exception of the girl due to the relationship starting to head south. The  extra semester I had to take due to dropping out for half of grade nine was the shits. Break up / get back together with girl multiple times, school is sucking a hemmroidal asshole, not getting along with parents, dumped before grad, wallow in self pity etc. etc. We've all been here before.

But I did have one class during that extra semester that I really enjoyed. It helped me to release my inner emo and helped to express the stabbyness I was feeling. (It should be noted that I stopped dressing like a greaser in grade ten. That's what we called the somewhat goth/emo/preppy kids) It was a creative writing class and the teacher would pretty much let us do whatever we wanted. Hell, we didn't even have to work in the classroom if we didn't want to. Given that I hated the whole structure of school, this was right up my alley. Of course there were curriculum components that had to be adheared to, but for the most part, we could do as we wished. The only substantial requirement we had was that we had to pick one piece of writing every week and read it to the class. I passed that class with a 96% and I have to say it was probably the grade I was most proud of because I had to earn it. The reason I felt that I earned it? It was the only "A" I ever had to work for up until my Statute Law test to recieve my certification eight years ago.

So with that - and at the risk of looking like a total fuckwad - lets take a look at the inner workings of an eighteen year old emo feeling (but not looking) admin. The transcribed but 100% original and accurate:


you use me
use me for personal gain
always there
always ready
the backup
here to caress you with my words
sooth you with my touch
always put the pieces back together
I'm tired of putting you back together
so tired
so you rape me
again and again
degrading me
stealing my pride
my self esteem
make me feel like dirt
yes you make me feel like dirt
and as I get up from my abuse
you sooth me
and give me back
a measure of what you took
and we live on
then again
you call on me
to perform my tricks
like a dog
I perform
I come when you call
when you're lonely
when you need companionship
and sent away
when your finished
tail between my legs
again I get up
never die
but I wish I could
and again
you treat me like your bitch
fuck me when it suits you
use me like a whore
your words my payment
and I ask you
do I look like your bitch
and you say half jokingly
but only half
you slap me
kick me
just another bitch
and yet
again I put you back together
again with my words
again with my touch
with my feelings like superglue
and all I wish for
is for someone to put me back together
not shatter me
as you do
all I dream
is for someone to touch me
caress me
to give me back
that which I have lost
someone with superglue

Holy fucking drama, man! If I was was wearing eye make up and fish nets on my arms when I wrote that you'd never know how awesome I would become (allow me my delusions people). Honestly, in hindsight, that chunk of pity-party makes me wonder how I ever managed to sack up and move on, but it was how I felt at the time. Now? I couldn't even imagine feeling that way. I've got it way to good. a gorgeous family, good job, and awesome friends (both flesh and virtual) My apologies all,  I didn't mean this as a downer. It is just amazing to me that I could go from that to this in fourteen short years. Actually, I was married with child four years after that lovely sample of angst (although I'm still kind of proud of it). I guess what I'm trying to say is, keep your head up, tomorrow could be all the awesome you're looking for.

StabbyMart: We're kind of sensitive, but we'll fucking stab you if you tell anybody.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009


Here at StabbyMart we deal with a variety of customers. All genders, colours, races, nationalities, religions and professions. What I'm saying is that every single day we welcome idiots, morons, asshats, jerk-offs, dickfaces, assholes and the ever popular douche. But honestly, we love 'em! I mean they pay the bills so we have to right? WRONG! At StabbyMart we have a wide selection of devices that are specially suited to tearing these people a new one. Please check out our "Specials" section to find that particular something that will satisfy your inner killer.

Of course these particular implements are tailored to my own requirements but I'm sure that we can find something that will make you just as happy in the pants as I am.

Customer: Mr. Oldensingle - Contrary to popular belief, we here at StabbyMart do actually have hearts. I honestly have some sympathy for these people. There are a lot of customers that have partners who have passed on and they have no fucking idea how to do many things that we take for granted every day.These people are usually two generations older than I and have a total lack of knowledge of how to do the tasks that their better half performed. Fifty years ago, in rural areas, gender roles were pretty specific. Pa did the farming and Ma did the cooking, cleaning, child-raisin' and everything else; and I do mean everything. This includes the vast majority of financial transactions and bookeeping. I've had quite a few men come in who have no idea what a tax notice is, what this invoice is for, how a debit card works and even how to write a check. I'm absolutely floored that these men actually manage to survive on their own. You can usually spot a Mr. Oldensingle by the look of lost confusion that is permanently etched upon their face.

The Purchase: A nice fluffy goose-down pillow - $14.95. The poor bastards are scared, confused and lonely already (although you'd be surprised how often I've heard "I'm glad she's gone") just let them go quietly to the great beyond. Don't feel bad, she's waiting to nag him on the other side. As an additional mercy, I suggest you purchase our stain-resistant, 600 thread count pillow case for $69.95. We all know how hard old-man bodily fluids are to get out of any fabric so why take the chance. Come on, let him go into the great beyond in Egyptian Cotton comfort, it's the least you can do.

Customer: Whiny Pantsless - If this wuss was one of my kids, he would have been told to nut up and spanked like that girl I paid last week. This collection of misery will whine about every. Single. Fucking. Thing. Back up and read that again because I really mean it. He can be spotted by observing his stooped posture, perpetual pout, the highly pitched voice and the complete lack of bulge where a bulge should be. I don't mean the lack of schmack like a Ken doll, I mean this fucker is concave.

This silly little bitch will whine about anything and everything. One should be carefull not to confuse Pantsless with Mr. Bitch who complains about everything. No, Whinypants could have (insert supermodel here) fall from the sky and ride his dick like Elizabeth Berkley in a swimming pool and find fault with it. He could win the lottery and pout that it wasn't just $50,000 more. He could have a never ending supply of scrumptious, sack moistening beer and bitch that he would rather have a Smirnoff Ice. These are people whom I have no respect for. The people who will look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth and whine that the horses breath smells better than their own. These are the people who should just stay in their own house and wallow in their own pity because nobody else is joining the party.

Two examples of this fetid pool of apathy come to mind as I remember that, when these conversations occured, I was almost rendered speechless. The first is a call I received from a gentleman who was upset with his taxes. Now, under normal circumstances, this isn't unusual and is actually to be expected. But in this instance, motherfucker wanted to complain about his taxes going DOWN! That's right my sexy, big breasted friends, this crybaby was upset that he was paying LESS in tax. You may ask yourself "Self?" Cause that's your name, "why in Godtopus' holy, genital manipulating tentacles, would somebody complain about paying less tax?" Well, I'll let his own words say it for him: "You know, the bank takes a payment from me every month for taxes, so now I'm going to have to call them and get the payment changed. It's really inconvenient." That's right, Mr. KnobCheese is saving $550.00 a year, but calling the bank is going to cause him undue stress.

The second instance is when we were building a road in front of an certain individuals property. Our policy is that we will pay the land owner for any crop damage we cause or "borrow" material we use. So picture this: You've got a nice, spanking new road in front of your house that didn't cost you a thing and the municipality just sent you a cheque for $400.00 for what amounts to a grader tire rolling over your land. What do you do? Why you call the municipality to whine about having to claim another $400.00 on your income tax. If you think about it, it makes perfect sense. Municipalities don't get audited by Revenue Canada (The IRS for the Americans among you) so of course you would claim that $400.00 that the government won't ever know about. Idiot.

The Purchase: A Pitch Sensitive Shock Collar - $23.64 If you're going to cry you little bitch, I'll bloody well give you something to cry about. The beauty of this little box of hate is that it's programmed to recognize the pitch in a persons voice. Whiny can speak as much as he wants to, as loud as he wants to, but when that voice rises in tone.......ZAP! As an added bonus, his screams will usually be in a much higher octave as well, so you can sit back and watch him be the author of his own demise. Also available with our brand new rectal attachement which features a self contained electrical amplifier.

Customer: The Boss - I assure you that I do enjoy working with people contrary to my rantings, but sometimes I could literally throttle a motherfucker with my bare hands. No garrot, no noose, just flesh on flesh so that I can feel their larynx crumple like a tin can. Those of you in public service have undoubtedly come across this steaming pile of douche many a time. Upon having a disagreement with you, this cuntface is the one that immediately states: "My taxes pay your salary so you work for me."

This simple statement is an immediate non-starter for me and you can be guaranteed that I will do the very least I can to help you upon your utterance of this completely idiotic sentence.  My usual response to this particular type of customer is, "no, I work for the seven people that the public has democratically elected," Typically, this is enough to bring this particular topic of conversation to an end. But in one instance, I had this glorious mound of walking fecal matter in my office that just wouldn't let it go. After he tried for a good fifteen minutes to trap me in some kind of "farmers" logic, I could take no more. I looked at him straight in his one good eye and said "Well, I just bought a loaf of bread at the supermarket yesterday, so I guess that means you work for me now." Needless to say that the conversation didn't go much further. The one with my bosses, however, did.

The Purchase: A pair of luxurious leather gloves - FREE. That's right friends, we here at StabbyMart hate these walking cuntsicles so much we will give you these gloves for free. We don't want you breaking a nail or getting scratched while this bitch is clawing at your hands in a desperate effort to suck down some precious oxygen. We feel that you are doing a public service and should be compensated accordingly. We only have one requirement of you to recieve this free gift (a regular value of $42.67) you must look your victim straight in the eye and scream "Who's the boss now, bitch!" If they rasp anything except "Tony Danza" you are contractualy obligated to donkey kick them in the ballsack/pusslips as an added bonus.

I hope you've enjoyed this short demonstration of our products and how we try to cater to the most specific and refined tastes. Please look for part two of our series whenever I get it done. I'm also in negotiations with Vince Schlomi to act as our spokesperson. I'm quite impressed with how he Slap-chops hookers but I have a feeling that we won't be able to meet his crystal meth requirements.

Oh, and for those of you requesting more nudity:

StabbyMart: Smothering, Choking and Zapping Bitches Since 1977.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


You all know that I've just started to do this thing. I don't know why I decided to (maybe I felt left out and am compensating for a lack of attention) but I've found that I rather enjoy it. I used to write quite a bit and then life kinda kicked me in the testicles, spanked my ass and called me a bitch. Since then, I've specialized in bureaucratic rhetoric and letters that take three paragraphs to say "no." So, yeah, I'm still trying to find the voice of this particular venture and recover what I've lost of my writing ability.

Having said all of that, I would appreciate any suggestions on how I can make my writing or The Store better. Am I rambling? Is my punctuation wrong? Was that a stupid-ass post? Spelling incorrect? (keep in mind I'm Canadian and I love "u"s). Fuck it, basically I would like you lovely bastards to be my editors. Consider it an investment against not getting flayed within a millimeter of your life by twenty centimeters of flaccid dick. Constructive criticism is always appreciated and you may even earn a discount in the sex toy department (I may also be the sex toy department). Even if you just feel like trolling, come on by. We love your kind at StabbyMart. You allow us to test our wares.

Drop a note in the comments with your input or hit me up on the facebook anytime.

Kisses, bitches

The Managment.

Monday, September 14, 2009


As many of you know, I'm a parent. I have three beautiful daughters and a dog. I have been a parent for over nine years now and have honed my instincts into a fine set of skills that should render any offspring immediately insane and irreparably damaged for their future partners. I don't know if I'm like other parents in the way that I do things and, quite frankly, I don't fucking care. Many of those who have seen me in action strongly disagree with how I run this joint but I suspect that there may be a hint of jealousy behind their criticism.

See, I'm old school. I spank, I make them use their manners, they have rules, they have chores, they get punished and so on and so forth. The world doesn't owe you anything and it's sure as hell not going to give you anything for free. Most people don't have an issue with this particular aspect of my parenting although it has been called into question from time to time. No, the issue seems to lie with what I allow my kids to do with their free time and specifically what I let them watch on tv and which movies I let them see.

I subscribe to the philosophy of: "as long as you get your shit done, I don't care what you do". Of course, there are restrictions and limitations that are appended to this philosophy. For example, if I feel that they have been spending too much time watching tv or playing video games, I'll make them go and read. It's all about balance, friends. Balance. I'll let them watch whatever they want within reason and, hell, I'll let them watch whatever I want. Of course I'm not going to pop in Dirty Debutantes Vol. 164: Stacey Goes Equine, but they do watch shows like Futurama, The Simpsons, South Park, HIMYM, BattleStar Galactica, Robot Chicken and so on. They've watched movies chalk full of violence, nudity, foul laguage and other such unsavory attributes. They've even seen giant blue peen! For Godtopus' sake, one of their favorites is SuperTroopers! Every time my parents or in-laws or somebody else is at our house and the kids are watching something they deem inappropriate all I hear is "you let them watch that?" My response is always "Yes. It does really seem to have done a lot of damage hasn't it? They don't seem very well adjusted at all."/sarc

As I'm sure you've noticed, every tv show and every movie comes with a rating. From "G" all the way up to X (unfortunately we don't have any of those kinds of theaters here). Now they even have little written warnings under the ratings. My personal favorite is "possible sex off screen." That's right, we now have to warn people about the potential for sex never mind the actual presence of the beast with six and a half backs. So let's look at one of these ratings in particular, people. Let's look at the PG rating. We all know what PG stands for. It stands for Parental Guidance.

I feel that the demon spawn are more than capable of watching programming that some would consider inappropriate as long as my wife and/or I are watching it with them to explain what they are watching. You know, Parental Guidance. For example: "Honey, you know that zombies are fictional and you shouldn't hit people with a cricket bat, right? At least until the apocolypse actually occurs". Or, "Babygirl, you understand that the words Paul Rudd is screaming at Jason Segel aren't appropriate to say to your teachers, right?" (I should mention that I curse like a sailor afflicted with Tourettes and we call these "Daddy Words"). So far, this has worked out rather well. My kids are polite, well mannered and don't call their teachers "fucking throat spelunkers" even though I do.  Please don't misunderstand, my kids watch a bunch of regular childrens programming as well.  Such quality productions as: iCarly, Hannah Montana, The Lion King 4 & 13/22nds, Bratz The Little Mermaid: Bitch Got A Tail Again and all that other tripe. I honestly have to wonder if these shows do more damage than the ones I let them watch. Hence, I think it is my parental duty to counteract the brain molestation that these reprehensible studio executives are forcing on our youth. Also, Sarina, I suspect that watching these shows may actually be the source of some of your neurosis.

The greatest advantage that my policy on the viewing of entertainment media has, is that the conversations with your children can become so much more rewarding. When I look at one of the supposed fruit of my loins and say "Timmmay!" they immediately know that I'm telling them they've done something retarded. When they come to the supper table and boldly pronounce "Milk was a bad choice!" I know that they would have preffered a different beverage. When my wife looks at the large, bleeding laceration on one of their legs, asks what happens and gets the reponse "Tis but a scratch", we know that it's not that bad. But the absolute best is those situations in which all the knowledge that you've helped to impart through inappropriate tv and movie viewing results in a conversation that blows your mind.

Wife - Did the girls tell you that they decided what they want to be for Halloween?
Me - No. *turns to the mailman's children* What did you decide you wanted to be?
Good One (9 yrs.) - I want to be a zombie!
Bad One - (6 yrs.) - I want to be an evil fairy!
Undetermined (1 month) - Whaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Me - *Sniff* That's....that's awesome.

Now, aside from wondering how I explain my kids appearence to the Quakers at their school, I was pretty damn proud. Then this happened a short while later:

Bad One - Good One! You should be a vampire!
Me - Not a chance, vampires are pussies.
Bad One - How can they be pussies? They drink peoples blood!
Me - Have you seen Twilight?
Bad One - No.
Me - The vampires fucking sparkle in the sunlight.
Bad One - Vampires can't go in the sun. And they DON'T sparkle.
Me - Exactly.
Bad One - *after considering this revelation* I guess that vampires are just bloody pussies.
Me - Bwhahahahahahaha!

StabbyMart: Rearing your children right.

Friday, September 11, 2009


I believe that the existence of this particular space really needs a point of reference. A starting position if you will. By no means do I have the worst job in the world. Indeed, in these times, I am in a remarkably good situation. I earn a good salary, am relatively secure and have a job that challenges me and that I truly enjoy - most of the time. But it is definately those short periods of time that the job becomes so ridiculous (I can actually feel my brain being whipped into a neurotic smoothee) that make up for all the enjoyment.

For some background: I've been in this profession for eight years. I've worked in three different offices, each with their own challenges and their own particular quirks, but the general basis of my job remains the same: I am City Hall. Just me. To be sure, my responsibilities are scaled down accordingly to coincide with the population and demographics, but this is the easiest way to explain it.  I do have an assistant and a foreman, but, we have no departments, no Managers of Whateverthefuck, no Supervisors of Whyareyoudoingthat, just me. I'm responsible for policy, law, enforcement, accounting, taxation etc. etc. But most of all, I'm responsible for P.R. In all it's shapes and forms.

I am the third generation in my family to work in this profession. As a matter of fact, the office I currently preside over was held by my father before me. I had actually completed my training here, under him, and I swore that I wouldn't be his successor. But that is a story for another day. I tell you this so that you can appreciate the utter contempt that I felt when he told me this story. Please understand that my father is far more patient with people than I am. So if he was this flabbergasted; then I, surely, would have been muderous. I can appreciate it if you don't understand something, and I have no problem explaining it to you, but there are limits. To qualify those statements: Parents - learn your children. Wives - school your husbands. People - pull your heads out of your asses.

Please keep in mind that this is a man in his thirties. Without re-hashing the typical telephone pleasantries it goes thusly:

Asshat - "what is this bill that you sent me for?"
Pops - "Does it have an invoice number, sir?"
Asshat - "It's got a bunch of numbers"
Pops - "Ok, what is the amount?"
Asshat - "*Insert arbitrary amount here*"
Pops - "And what was the name?"
Asshat - "Douchebag Asshat."
Pops - "Ok, can you hold for a moment while I look it up?"
Asshat - "Why can't you just tell me what it's for?"
Pops - "Because we send out hundreds of invoices every year. Can you hold a moment?"
Asshat - "Fine."

            *Pops filps through approximately 150 invoices and cross references the spread sheet*

Pops - "I'm sorry sir, I can't find an invoice with your name on it."
Asshat - "What?!"
Pops - "We didn't send you an invoice."
Asshat - "What do you mean? I'm holding it in my hand!"
Pops - *thinks for a moment* "Mr. Asshat, what does it say at the top of the letter?"
Asshat - "Tax Notice."
Pops - "So it's not an invoice, it's a tax notice."
Asshat - "What do you mean?"
Pops - "Every year the municpality sends out a tax notice that is due by the end of December."
Asshat - "But I didn't buy anything from you!"
Angry Pops - "It's not an issue of you buying something from us; you own property and, as such, it is subject to taxation."

              *Pops also goes through a detailed explanation of the taxation system and purpose*

Asshat - "What do you mean, I have to pay this every year just to live here?"
Angry Pops - "Yes."
Asshat - "Well then, I'll just move!"
Angry Pops - "It doesn't matter. If you own property, you'll pay taxes no matter where you live."
Asshat - "I just bought this place from my mom! I've never paid taxes in my life!"
Angry Pops - "Then maybe you should call your mommy and have her explain it to you!"
Angry Pops - *slams phone down*

StabbyMart: Helping you rid the world of stupidity one idiot at a time.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


Welcome to StabbyMart! Welcome to the future. The entire reason I opened this store was to offer rage and vitriol at rock bottom prices. You see, due to my sweatshop located in in the ghettos of this arctic wasteland, my job and the five beautiful but ultimately frustrating women I live with, I can offer an abundance of products that are basically free.

Taint Punches? Well my good lady, those can be found in aisle three.

Canadian Ball Traps? Well sir, those would be found in our extensive Outdoors section.

Duadenum Removers? Ah, my friend, an excellent choice. Aisle sixteen.

Rectal Reamers? We are currently running a sale on those items, they can be found in our lavish Gardening Centre

Fetapults? I'm sorry Timmy, we'll have to special order those for you.

Check back daily/weekly/monthly/whenever I fucking feel like it, for our latest in store specials that will meet all your ass-kicking, stabbing, maiming, vivisecting, choking, murdering and all around pain inducing needs. Be on the lookout for our Manager's Specials wherein you too can experience the magic of StabbyMart.

StabbyMart: You're not in prison, but we'll shiv you like you were.