About Stacey

You seem to have stumbled upon my very own blog. Obviously you are showing some interest in the author of all these opinions and articles. Let me introduce myself.

I am Stacey Reid, from Orangeville, Ontario, Canada. Father of three really great, and annoying, kids. I would like to go into my personal life story, but I do not know where the truth begins, and where the lies end. You see, I am a star of a very popular television documentary. I will try to fill you in on all the details for those who are just joining in now.

The Early Years

Originally I was from Borneo. My parents were cave dwellers (please do not call us “cavemen” as we find that demeaning). I remember running through the vast virginal rainforests on this island nation, that I once called home. I have fond memories of the orangutan family that called themselves the Grumts. Hunting and fishing and swimming.

And being caught up in a snare.

My life changed.


Caged, like a wild animal. I was transported overseas. The journey must have taken months and it happened in the most unseaworthy boat ever constructed. Not one day went by where I did not suffer from sea-sickness. I hate throwing up; it is so disgusting. And being trapped in a small cage made the whole ordeal even worse.

With great relief, and with a sense of impending doom, my voyage through hell ended. I was still very young, and recently torn away from my parents. Scared. Lonely. Hungry. Filthy. I was all too eager to join a young couple. They took me home to a small house on a hill. It was so different than the trees and caves of Borneo.

This little red house was surrounded by not a single tree. I searched for years and never found a cave. The animals were very different, making “mooing” sounds and they produced a delicious white fluid that I learned to call “millk”. The people that adopted me were very good caretakers. They called themselves “Mom” and “Dad”. It was not until I had my own kids, did I learn the meaning of Mom and Dad.

At first, I did not notice the oddities in my life. Being initially raised in a tropical jungle and forcibly made to join a family from Stirling, I was blind to things that were out of the ordinary. When I was a child, I had learned the language of the cave dwellers. While in school in my native Borneo, I took Orangutanianese as a second language. The Grumts were a very nice family.  They knew the language they spoke was very difficult to master, especially for someone who is not their species.  This is important to know because the people I called Mom and Dad, were not my real parents.  I thought that Mom and Dad were their names.  The birth of my first born and his learning to speak and calling me dad, was the very first realization of something wrong.  There was something fishy going on in my life.

The Strangers

As a child, I thought that it was odd to have so many people in the home that you were not allowed to talk to.  In my original cave home, everyone was approachable and everyone spoke to you when you talked to them.  This was not the case for me in my adopted home of Stirling.  There were a lot of people there, in the house, at all times of the day.  They were everywhere.  They followed me when I went outside.  They hovered over me when I tried to sleep.  And when I had to use the bathroom, they were all there, all watching me eagerly.

These people carried cameras.  They filmed me all the time.  It was getting annoying.  I asked “Mom” about this.  At first she told me to ignore them and that they were company.  I was also never to talk to them and to pretend that they were invisible.  Later, in the years as I grew up, this advice from “Mom”, didn’t work anymore.  I questioned “Mom” severely one day on the presence of these people; people who made lots of noise and made me very uncomfortable.  I could no longer ignore them anymore and I wanted them gone.

Silly Questions

“Mom” tried for weeks to calm me of my “silly questions” and “silly fears”.  Then, I just had it.  I do not know what I had said, but I got the message across.  “Mom” looked at me, and for the first time ever, she began talking to the people in the house.

Angered, I stormed to my room.  It was the first time since Borneo that I had some alone time; no others followed me.  I cried.  I fell asleep.

With a loud noise, “Mom” rushed into my room.  She started to say things about being late for school and I had to go.  I was tired and confused.  I did as she told me.  I readied myself and started to go to the door.

This was odd.  It is still dark out.  Wait a minute.  It is August and it is summer vacation, why am I going to school?

“Mom” pushed me out the door and told me to walk to school.  It was the strangest thing I had ever heard from her mouth.  Stranger than all the times she told me to ignore all the strangers.  Stranger than all the times she pretended that these strangers were figments of my imagination.  It was so strange because I normally took the bus to school.

I stumbled through the dark to the end of the driveway and stood there wondering what to do.  “Mom” had been watching me and scolded me for not hurrying off.  Dazed, confused, bewildered, I set off in the only direction I knew, I began to walk the way the bus took to school.  I knew that this was not the shortest way because “Dad” always took a faster way, the way that did not have to stop at every house and go down every road.  But I never paid attention to this whenever I was in the car and could only go the way the bus did.

In my adult years, during my investigations on what I would call “The Stacey Reid Show”, I drove along the route that I had walked.  It was over thirty kilometers!  Miles and miles for a child.


I remember the heat.  I remember thirst.  I remember Buster.  I hated Buster.  We all hated Buster.  He was such a bad dog.  He always chased the bus and everyone on the bus waited for him to tear through and kill all of us students.  He was so mean and vicious looking.

I did not have the protection of the bus when I saw Buster.

He was none to happy to see me.

He frothed at the mouth.  Barked and threatened to bite.  He ran up to me, charging with all his might.  I stood there, exhausted.  Stupefied by thirst, I just wanted Buster to finish me off.  I still had 37 more houses to walk by and I was so tired.  The thought of Buster going for my neck and finishing me off was a warm and comforting dream.

I stood there, eyes closed, and presented my neck to the hell hound that was tearing towards me.  I heard his claws digging into the ground.  The jingle of his collar.  The surprising sound of paws sliding to an abrupt halt.  And the awful smell of his breath.

Buster was all bark and no bite.  He was a true bully.  Lots of yelling, screaming, threatening.  All show.  Buster just stood there barking and barking.  Barking and barking.  Bark.  Bark.  Bark.

I was too disappointed to laugh.  I really wanted to end it all and having a cowardly dog spraying slobber on me as he barked was a real nuisance.

Old Man Giles

I began to follow the bus route again.  For six hours, Buster accompanied me.  He never let up his barking.  Even when his voice was hoarse, he tried to bark.  Buster finally was spooked off by Old Man Giles and his toy poodle.

Old Man Giles did not go on the bus.  The bus did not stop at his house because he was an old man.  We all knew him because the was the groundskeeper at the school.  He had a small dog that he vocitated as Mittins.  Stupid name, I know.  It is a cat’s name.  Old Man Giles didn’t care.  We school children always taunted him for the stupid cat name for a stupid dog.  He would shake his rake and walk off.  We all hated Old Man Giles.

Today, I loved Old Man Giles, and his ill-named Mittins.  The tiniest dog in the world stampeded towards Buster and the little dog scared away the cowardly bully that tagged me for so long.  I loved Mittins and vowed never to make fun of this little dog again.

I continued on my death march to school.  My mind was melting under the heat.  Whenever I came to a house that we stopped for, I went through the motions of the bus driver, and pretended to open the door.  Made a few sound effects and continued to the next home.

My Dream Girl

The next home was my favourite.  Little Nicole Henderson lived there.  She was a real beauty.  The prettiest eyes.  Gorgeous hair.  Sumptuous teeth.  And the most amazingly pulchritudinous voice you could ever hear.  Because of her, I learned at a young age the sometimes embarrassing nature of being a boy in front of a pretty girl.  She didn’t mind.  She always giggled and pointed.  My heart turned to jelly every time she did that.

I perdured my little bus stop sound effects and actions.  Drunk with fatigue and thirst, I was taken by surprise when little Nicole Henderson said “Good morning to you, bus driver.”  I stared at her.  She handed me a glass of water.  She leaned forward to me.  My heart leaped.  I thought she was going to kiss me.  The embarrassing thing that happens to boys happened in record time at this moment.  She didn’t kiss.  But I did feel those august lips brush against my ears as she whispered that everything was going to be okay.

I was revitalized.  I drank the water in a single gulp and marched off and finished the bus route.  I honestly felt I was travelling faster than the bus.  I got to the school before night fell.  What am I to do now?


I approached the school door and it was locked.  I stood there, holding the door handle, stuck with the question of “what next” in my mind.  Behind me I had heard the steps of “Dad”.  There you are, he said.  What are you doing here at school.  Your mom said you got a crazy idea that you had to go today.

What he said was so very wrong.  Mom sent me to school; I did not want to go.  But I did not care.  “Dad” was there to take me home.  Home.  Home sweet home.  Not the home I yearned for in Borneo, but it was home nonetheless.  Home had water.  Home had a bed.  Home had food.  Home had, had…

Home had those strangers!

Home doesn’t have those strangers?  Where did they go?

Silly boy, you know there is no school in summer.  You had me so worried, “mom” said with a great big hug.  I quietly looked at her as I ate and drank.  I had nothing to say.  I wasn’t holding a grudge or anything.  It was just that there was nothing that I could possibly say to her about this whole situation.

I got up and wandered the house looking for the strangers.  They were nowhere to be found.  I retired to bed.  For the first time, I slept without being disturbed by the noise and hushed whispers of people watching me.

Dr. Strangelove

Morning came.  Lunch was served by “mom”.  Dinner prepared.  And I slept through all of that.  I did awake to the sound of Gilligan’s Island, my favourite show at the time.  I staggered to the TV room.  I sat on the couch and failed to notice the odd looking man who happened to be sitting there as well.

You see doctor, he just ignores real people, piped “mom”.  I am so worried about this behaviour, she continued.

I squinted at her.  I guess that she was right.  Years and years of being told to ignore the strangers, had taught me to ignore the funny looking doctor on the couch besides me.  He had introduced himself as Dr. D. W. Strangelove and he was there to help me with my imaginary strangers problem.

For the next several months, I had daily sessions with his quirky little man.  He was always telling me that there were no strangers in the house.  There was never any strangers in the house.  And this fixation of made-up people had to stop.  Even the school was in on it.  We did a whole section on imagination and imaginary friends.  Day in.  Day out.  Nothing but discussion after discussion.  Lesson after lesson.

Adam’s Perfect Eve

Before all of this, I only found school tolerable because it contained Little Nicole Henderson.  Her daily glances in my direction and that exquisite smile of hers.  She was the one I wanted for the rest of my life.

A long time ago, in a far away place, there was a man named Adam.  He had it made.  He walked around the Garden of Eden and conversed with the animals.  He came up with funny names like kangaroo and rhinoceros.  He even had a wonderful relationship with God.  Daily talks with The Big Guy.  Playing catch.  Tackle football.  Basketball.

God decided to give Adam a gift.  If you have ever had to do Secret Santa at the office, you would want God to be the One that picks your name.  He is the perfect gift giver.  He knows everything that you can ever want or desire.  And then He will make it more phenomenal than you could ever imagine.

Maybe it was Adam’s birthday.  Maybe it was just because Adam was such a nice man.  Whatever the reason was, God presented Adam with a present.  Adam did the whole close-your-eyes routine and when he opened them, all he could say was, “Whoa! Man!”  And that is why women are called what they are.

Eve was her name.  She was a gift from God.  Like I said, getting a gift from God is an amazing thing indeed.  He puts in a lot of effort and thought into what He gives.  There are so many artist depictions of what Adam and Eve looked like, and they are all wrong.  Every picture shows some ugly couple.  This was

The first people were not this ugly.

not the case.  Adam being the first man, and Eve being the first whoa-man, were created perfectly.  There was no a flaw on either one of them.  He was perfectly shaped.  The perfect height.  The perfect amount of muscle tone.  The perfect, ah, thing, as well.

Eve was no different.  Being the first woman, and being a spectacular gift from God, she was even better constructed than Adam.  The right height.  The right weight.  All the right curves in all the right places.  There are some really good looking women walking around today.  None of them could even compare to the radial beauty of Eve.

Except Nicole.  Eve would pale in comparison to my love of my life.

She stopped smiling at me when all this imaginary people thing started.  Instead, when she looked at me, there was a great deal of sorrow.  Sadness that tore my heart.  It was the very last day that I would see her.  She came up to me and with a tear in her eye, she struggled to tell me that I had to stop all this obsession with strangers.  She leaned into me with the greatest hug I had ever felt.  Whispering into my ear, she told me that she believed me. 

I never saw her again.  I never got to see her flower into a woman.  Never got to take her on a date.  Never been able to speak to her again.  Nobody ever spoke of her; it was if she never existed.  She wasn’t in the class photo even though she stood beside me when it was taken.  I never heard from her again.

I eventually remitted my claims of strangers.  In time, I began to believe that there were no strangers who plagued my life.  I even denied that I came from Borneo and that “Mom” and “Dad” were really my mom and dad.  Nearly two decades would pass before I started to notice strange occurences in my life.

All this happened when my first born called me “dada.”


Becoming a parent after I had married, was the greatest thing in my life.  Your whole view of the world changes so much.  Parenting was, and still is, something I treasure.  When Corey said dada to me, old memories of my childhood flooded back.  I was confused at first, thinking I was mixing up some television shows with actual memories.  Memories of trees and orangutans and lots of strangers, poured into my mind.  That had to be confusion from watching too much TV as a kid.  I dismissed these “irrational” thoughts.

I had a second kid and then a third one, years after the first two.  Memories of my odd childhood kept finding its way to the forefront of my brain.  I was having a hard time dismissing it all.  I had a breakthrough when I was waiting in a parking lot for someone.  I had the car pointed to the exit and just watched the cars pass by.  It was a steady stream of vehicles.  The person I was waiting for had returned.  Time to leave.  Time to wait.  I approached the exit expecting to just pull out and go.  No.  A wad of traffic had somehow had found its way to my location and I was forced to wait.  And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was all gone.

This was not the first time something like this happened.  For whatever reason, I would find myself being held up by unexplained traffic.  Sometimes the traffic lights all turned red and I had to wait.  There were times I was in a serious rush.  Eating at restaurants can result in a bathroom emergency.  Always I would be delayed in my rush to get home.

And it is not always happening in the car.  Lineups at stores at times when there is no one in the store to begin with.  Doctor appointments months into the future.  Letters in the mail that take longer than expected.

There have also been some really good things too.  I have been lucky in avoiding all traffic accidents.  I have never had anything larger than a scratch happen to my car.  I thought that it was a combination of luck, skill and more luck.  I have always had enough money.  Never rich, but never hungry nor homeless neither.  Good things. Miraculous things. 

The Truman Show

 Jim Carrey had an eye opening movie called The Truman Show.  It all clicked into place.  Before this movie, I wondered on the conspiracy that surrounded my life.  The odd delays and the perfectly timed benefits.  Truman was a literal Godsend.  He was filmed 24 hours a day, everyday of every moment of his life.

This was a message.  A secret smuggled in by my very own fans.  I like to think that maybe Nicole was in on the leak. Whoever it was, The Truman Show was a sign that I was famous.  All those delays in my life were for a commercial break.  Those happy times were sweeps weeks.  The disappearance of the camera crews was because they were all replaced by hidden cameras.  It all made perfect sense.

The memory of being ensnared and trapped on a boat.  Grit Grumt as my best friend.  Life in a damp cave.  My real mom and dad.  The evil Dr. Strangelove and his diabolical plan to make me forget.

I now knew the truth: I am a world famous TV star!  Billions of people watch The Stacey Reid Show everyday.  Why are all the lights red?  Because of a commercial.  Why am I delayed when I have to rush home and sit on the toilet?  To build suspense.  Why have I never been in a car accident?  Because I am a star and you do not want to kill off the star of the show.

The world made sense. 

All those actors pretending to do whatever they are doing.  The detail in the news on TV and the size of my world (I haven’t found the edge yet, even though I have travelled really far).  All of this is for me.  All me.  Nothing but for me.

I am so special.

Life is good.

You Are Crazy

 Now I know what you are thinking; I am crazy and delusional.  So many people have told me this.  Even my kids have been on my case on The Stacey Reid Show and whether it exists or not. 

It is okay.

I know you are only following directions from The Producers.  You are doing your job to convince me otherwise, so I will continue my “normal” life.

No need to worry.  I will play along.  Even though the truth of my life is now so blatant, I will still be the star of the show.  I will be more patient during the commercial breaks.  I will understand the need to build suspense and intrigue.  All in the name of good ratings.

I have to keep up the ratings; my life depends on it.  What do shows do when their rating fall?  They get canceled.  And what is the best way to cancel a show?  Kill off the main character.  I am that character and I do not want to die.  The show will go on.  Stronger and better now that I know the truth.

Two Choices

 What choice do I have.  Either everything I just wrote is a made up lie, or the real truth is that I am a bored Canadian father of three doing nothing important with my life.

I can be a world celebrity.

Or I can be a nobody.

So, reader, you can make a choice and see me as a famous superstar, or as an insignificant cog in a vast sea of nothingness.

I know my choice.

I am a star of the greatest show ever:

Thanks for watching.

4 thoughts on “About Stacey

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