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.

How I Spent Inauguration Night

People around these parts are pretty happy that Obama is now president.  I haven’t seen folks this fired up since…well…since ever.  I wasn’t born yet when Kennedy was inaugurated.  As for Bill Clinton in 1992, I think we all would have liked to feel wonderful about him, but there was something about the guy that made you want to take a shower after he shook your hand.

Believe it or not, I did not attend the festivities at in Argus.  Instead, I schlepped across the bay for my friend Kim’s party in Oakland.

Overall, it was a fun evening.  Kim’s friend’s are intelligent people and nice folks overall.  There was plenty of food and drink and I managed to avoid making a complete ass of myself by staying away from hard liquor and sticking to beer.

My choice of beverage turned out to be a wise move indeed.  An ex-girlfriend in attendance made some comment about how I had passed out in the fetal position in the walkway of her house at a party some years ago.  That particular story always reminds me of why I think of myself as damaged and just not good enough for normal human interaction.

I’m not sure why this is.  I’ve done far worse.  Maybe her habit of bringing up that night lends my indiscretion importance it wouldn’t ordinarily have.

With just few beers in my system, I was content  to turn away from her and engage others in conversation topics with a heightened level of crassness.  This is known as the “nothing bothers me, I joke about fontanel fucking” defense and it has served me well over the years.

If whiskey were introduced into the equation, it could have been much worse.  When I young, I might have engaged in some sort of alcoholic performance art like carving “Blow Me” into my forearm with a steak knife or dropping my pants and taking a shit in the kitchen sink to show how much better I am than everybody else.  As an older and somewhat wiser man, I would probably say some things I genuinely regretted.

Of course, not letting inconsequential stuff get to me at all would have been the wise move but I’ll save that life lesson for another day.

A Bit of Fluff off the Cuff

There’s really not much to tell but I thought I would chime in to assure you that Poison Spur will continue.  Expect updates every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

I will be discontinuing the pulp reviews for the foreseeable future.  I know some of you enjoyed those entries but my heart just isn’t in it anymore.  I would rather create my own sleazy fiction than showcase decades-old contributions by others.

For aficionados of toilet humor, degrading sex, and senseless violence, fear not.  The Spur will move forward with your needs in mind.

You Say You Want a Resolution

I approached the new year with high hopes indeed.  I was already on the fast track to success with one of my self-improvement objectives, having smoked my last cigarette during the wee hours of December 20.

What remained on my resolution list was to write more, drink less, and lose enough weight so I don’t reel in horror everytime I catch my reflection in a full-length mirror.  All of these seemed easily within reach with my victory over nicotine a near certainty.

There is just one little problem.  Quitting smoking takes a lot out of a person.  For the past three weeks, I’ve been irritable, scatterbrained, and unable to write for shit.  I’ll get it sorted out eventually but through the month of January, I apologize in advance if my prose comes off as schizophrenic and retarded.

Thank you for your patience.