I couldn’t because I’d have much more fun planning it than actually having to do it. The police would arrive on the scene and find half-finished my half-finished checklist with my bloody fingerprints on it, footprints everywhere, and a big bucket of cleaning supplies (still in their original unopened packaging) complete with receipt and my debit card number.
Have you connsidered becoming a garroter?
Look, do you tie you shoes?
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All funds must be paid in genuine Slobbovian Pazzozies.
Not that it matters, but true garroting can produce a metric fuckload of blood.
I thought I couldn’t be a serial killer, but I think I’ve found a loop hole. My freezer is tiny, I’ve no back yard or basement because I live in an apartment. But I am a decent cook and the local homeless shelters always need volunteers for their soup kitchen. I’d need to kepp the police from investigating me, so I’ll need to keep the victims completely random and manage not to be the last person seen with them. Then I just add a little something extra to the soup pots and nobody’ll be the wiser. The bones I can cremate in my kiln. Ta dah!
Too bad I feel awful even when I’m just spraying for ants. Can I be a serial Cabbage Patch Doll killer instead? I have *no * compassion for those things.
Way too squeamish. Even a dead bird makes me want to squeam.
Overly permissive childhood.
Not neat enough.
Too much empathy.
I love cats, dogs, and women.
As a single, bright, socially maladjusted male in his late 30s, I’d be a prime suspect.
Massive Hijack Alert That Is Semi-Related Reagarding Guilt and Crime.
A good friend of a good friend was a 25 or so year rich boy’s son. Had a major hard on for corvettes. Major hard on. The kid is a certifiable genius, but an emotional wreck and essentially goes from job to job. ( He is now nearing 40 and lives in his parents basement, if that helps give an accurant picture.)
Somehow, the particulars escape me right now, he stole a corvette, took it home and dismantled it and for some reason that is completely insane and inexplicable, stored the stolen parts in the attic of this house. ( Not sure if it is his parents house or if it was during one of his independent phases.) Anyway, the parts of an entire mint corvette are in the attic. Catagorized and catalogued for future use.
He sat on this information and knowledge for at least two or three years. A couple of good friends knew about this and were more amused by the ‘storing it up in the attic’ than the stealing part.
Anyways, Rich Boy one day is just overcome with carrying all this guilt around for all this time. Takes himself into the police department and spills his gut. I mean, just blubbering like a baby.
The cops just took the information and released him on his own recognizance …and the Rich Boy never heard from the cops again and for all we know, that corvette is still in the attic.
I swear to God this is a true story.
You have to know this Rich Boy to know that you can’t make up crap like this.
There is some kind of Aesop Fable lesson to be learned here, but I’ll be danged if I can find it.
Lots of reasons already mentioned, but I also think I am just not patient enough with people who just aren’t getting it. So, say I sent a taunting note to the police and then saw a news show about said note. (We all know that serial killers love to watch the news coverage about their crimes). Sometimes they don’t release the contents of the note, but sometimes they do release them as well as some speculation. With my luck, they’d be going off on some crazy tangent and I’d find myself calling up and saying, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with you people? That’s not what I mean at all !! Have you no analytical skills?!”
Please return to your regularly scheduled discussion of why you couldn’t be a serial murder.
[/hijack]
I’d rather be Batman.
If I’m going to go to all the trouble of killing people, it won’t be random strangers.
Didn’t have the abusive/neglected childhood. Wasn’t a bed-wetter. And I like animals… well, enough that I would never torture one anyway.
But aside from that…
Actually, I’ve given the matter a fair amount of thought, as it’s a fascinating subject and I’ve read a few books on the matter (thus making me an expert of course 
).
All stereotypical (true or not) cues of the serial killer aside, what it comes down to is control and power. The crimes are about expressing control over women in general because they reject the killer’s advances, for example; or one of their abusive parents by proxy of their victim, who may or may not resemble the parent; or to reinstitute control over themselves by eliminating what they feel to be wrong about themselves, like homosexuality. And so on…
There now, perhaps I am a serial killer… a serial thread killer!
What, and waste perfectly good bones? :eek: There’s some prime stock broth in that, and when that’s done, you could grind up the bones and sell the bone meal to local gardeners! You might even be able to work out a barter: bone meal in exchange for a share of the produce.
And thus the cycle of life is complete…
I’m a horrible actor. I can’t help smiling all the time, I’m not kidding. Nobody in their right minds would take me seriously.
Plus, I’m just too bloody well nice. sigh
That’s my reason right there.
Mister Ed Gein, come on down!
I couldn’t be a serial killer because:
I’m female, I’m not a highway prostitute, I have no children or step-children, I’m not a nurse, I’m not a nurse’s aide, and I’m not married to a male serial killer (folie a deux and all that).
Also I’m too absentminded. I’d forget about the phenomenon of fingerprints until I get that knock on the door…
I prefer to regard God as an instrument of my wrath rather than the other way round.
That’s a good point, Eve. Redheads are not supposed to wear orange, so that alone would keep me from killing people.
Other than that, I tend to worry a lot. The stress would kill me before I was caught - which of course would be what I worried about.
Not to mention I’d had to find a blood-less method of killing, since I’m not good with blood. I can deal with dirty diapers, but blood and snot just make me queasy. I’m pretty sure they can get DNA from your puke, since it probably contains shed stomach lining cells. That’d be no good at all.
“They can’t, like, dust for vomit.” {David St Hubbins?}
The only time I feel that pashionate about killing someone is when I’m driving. Hell, I’d never make it home. Yet. Another. Son. of. a. Bitch. Cut. Me. Off. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. Death to all fu$%^ers who don’t know how to merge. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. “See this stick coming out of your steering column? It’s a turn signal you F#$K!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! When would I ever get a chance to write taunting notes. I figure the police would find me curled up in sleep around vitim 64 with a big satisfied grin on my face.