Shurder, He Wrote

If you’re acquainted with my ramblings on Facebook, you probably already know about “Shurder.”  If not, I’ll try to quickly bring you up to speed.

Facebook has this chain-letter type thing where you write a note with 25 things about yourself and tag 25 of your friends to do the same thing.  This process repeats itself until everybody has tagged everyone else and we’re sick and tired of each other’s self-absorbed drivel.

When my turn came along, I did what I usually do, candy coat my bloated ego with a layer of self-deprecation and dysfunction.  One item stood out, at least for me:

20. I have a recurring dream where I have done a terrible crime. I can’t describe the nature of this offense because, though very real in the dream sense, it does not exist in the material realm. All I can say is that it combines the worst elements of murder and shitting one’s pants. For lack of a better term, I’ll call it “shurder.” When I wake up from such a dream and return to reality, I get a huge feeling of relief. I may not be perfect but I am no shurderer.

In the interests of brevity, I had glossed over how horrifying this dream truly is.  Some of you might say, “Hey, I’ve crapped in my pants.  It’s not a good experience but it’s not the end of the world.”  Others might (you never know) voice a similar sentiment about killing someone.

Ah, where to begin.

Let’s start with the killing part.  I have never taken a human life and never want to.  If I ever did, I imagine it would go down something like this:

“Please don’t shoot me.  I won’t tell.”

“You got that right, honey.”


And that would be that.  There wouldn’t be any hard feelings, at least not on my end.  It would be an act of self defense, of the quality of life if not of life itself.

Not so with shurder.  There is a hatred of my victim that encompasses every bit of ill will not only for that person but also for the rest of world and especially for myself.  The killing itself is not just to end a life but to introduce pain beyond belief, let the person hold out some hope for survival only to snatch it away with the final assault.  This scenario runs backward, forward sideways in every way possible and even ways that are not.

Next comes the shit.  I’m not talking about a healthy log of processed oat bran I marvel at in the toilet before flushing.  The shit of shurder is that almost rust colored third-world sewer al frescoplague sludge that is responsible for so much disease and misery.

It comes from the asshole of both the victim and myself, as well as spontaneously appearing from its own elemental plane.  Fouling everything it touches and unable to be washed away, it becomes as much a part of the murder as any stab wound or blunt-force trauma.

And in my dream, I am the guilty one.  There is no forgiveness for a crime like this.  Nothing I have done nor will ever do can redeem me until I shake myself awake.

Fortunately, years can pass between having this dream again.  Maybe it’ll go away forever someday.  Maybe it already has.  Then again, maybe it will come back, but this time I will never wake up.