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Shame

Today's special edition of is brought to you by the letters 'F' and 'U' and by the number '8'

This was going to be a rant, but I think it'll become a ramble, given that the idea is a single sentence and, despite what many may try to get away with - not naming any names, or pointing any fingers (I'm really not. At least, not at any EBs, more pointing at politicians and stuff.) - a sentence does not column or rant make. :)

But, basically, I'm here to talk about shame. The fun. Shame and guilt. They can be fun. Not true, 'naked-and-beaten-in-public' shame, but more "grinning sheepishly as those around you laugh in equal parts at and with you". Anyway, the point I'm making is that shame can be fun. I think I said that. And remember, I warned you. A ramble.

You see, I was driving home one day from Uni and I had to go past Sam's house. So I had to drive over Scrivener dam. It was a little rainy. It had previously been very rainy. There were fit, buff men jogging over the dam. I tried to avoid splashing them by driving further toward the middle of the road. I was, unfortunately, very wrong. I went right through a very large puddle and splashed them a lot.

And I laughed.

It felt GREAT! Know why? Cause I'm a slob. Cause they're gonna live longer than me (assuming they didn't die of pneumonia). Cause I used to get picked on by sporty types.

And then I felt bad.

I felt shamed. I felt guilty. And I loved it.

And then I told people. And it felt bad, and good. And they laughed.

Last night, at a cast party, Glenn (a friend of ours) put his finger on a good point. The kind of joke we like as a group, the kind of joke we're all going to hell for, relies more than a little on guilt.

I realise now that this has gone nowhere and I've sullied the good name of GBU.

Sorry.