I like my shame straight up and honest, and nobody does it better

Host: The parking lot was bathed in neon red and white, glowing like a low-budget altar for America’s late-night confessions. The In-N-Out Burger sign buzzed faintly in the warm air, flickering just enough to make everything feel like a memory that wasn’t sure if it wanted to last. The smell of grilled onions, salt, and regret hung thick in the summer night — a perfume of comfort and consequence.

Cars lined up under the awning, their headlights cutting brief, sacred beams across tired faces. Inside one of them, Jack sat in the driver’s seat, window cracked, engine humming. Jeeny sat beside him, unwrapping a burger with delicate reverence, like a priestess at a paper-wrapped communion.

Between them, the console glowed from the dashboard light — a still life of fries, ketchup packets, and the echo of laughter from the speaker box.

On the dashboard, scrawled in Sharpie on a napkin, were the words that had started the whole conversation:
"I like my shame straight up and honest, and nobody does it better than In-N-Out Burger. You go to In-N-Out Burger, and they ask you the most shameful question in fast food. 'I'll have a burger, fries and a Coke.' 'Will you be eating in the car?' 'Yeah. I think so.'" — Tom Segura.

Jeeny: (chewing thoughtfully) “You know, he’s right. That’s the most intimate question a stranger can ask you — Will you be eating in the car? It’s not just a question. It’s an accusation with ketchup.”

Jack: (grinning) “Yeah. It’s the fast-food equivalent of a confessional. You can almost hear the subtext: You couldn’t wait ten minutes, could you?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And you say, ‘Yeah, I think so,’ because at least you’re honest. There’s no pretending you’re a person with patience or grace left. You’re just hunger in human form.”

Jack: “Or sadness. Hunger and sadness go great with fries.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re not wrong.”

Host: The neon light from the sign flickered over their faces — red, white, red again. Somewhere nearby, the faint sound of an old rock song floated through another car’s cracked window. The parking lot glowed like a cathedral of indulgence, each parked vehicle a tiny booth for absolution.

Jeeny: “There’s something kind of holy about it though, isn’t there? Eating alone in your car. It’s sad, but it’s pure. No performance. No pretense.”

Jack: “It’s like admitting you’re human — and hungry — at the same time.”

Jeeny: “And a little ashamed.”

Jack: “That’s the secret seasoning.”

Jeeny: “Shame?”

Jack: “Yeah. Every bite tastes better when you’ve stopped pretending you’re above it.”

Host: A couple in a nearby car laughed too loudly, their voices mingling with the sound of fries crackling in oil and orders shouted through drive-thru headsets. It was late, but not late enough for silence — that in-between hour where time feels like it’s stalling for effect.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Shame is the most democratic emotion there is. Everyone has it. The rich, the broke, the beautiful — we all end up in a car somewhere at 11:30 p.m. eating burgers too fast.”

Jack: “Yeah, but not everyone admits it. That’s why Segura’s line hits so hard. He’s not romanticizing it. He’s just… telling the truth. The kind you can taste.”

Jeeny: “The kind you have to laugh at, or it’ll eat you first.”

Jack: “Exactly. Shame’s the one emotion that doesn’t go down easy, so you have to drown it in a Coke.”

Jeeny: (smirking) “Or at least chase it with fries.”

Host: The car windows fogged slightly from the heat of food and conversation. Jack wiped a small circle clear with his sleeve, watching the reflection of the glowing sign ripple across the glass like a confession he hadn’t yet made.

Jack: “You know what’s weird? There’s an honesty in this that you can’t get anywhere else. Not even in restaurants. In here — in the car — it’s just you, your food, and your choices staring back at you in the rearview mirror.”

Jeeny: “It’s private honesty. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to be charming. You just chew, stare out the window, and think about how every decision in your life somehow led you here — between two ketchup packets and an existential crisis.”

Jack: (laughing) “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Everything’s poetic if you’re hungry enough.”

Jack: “Or sad enough.”

Jeeny: “Or both. The perfect recipe for self-awareness.”

Host: A small paper napkin fluttered from the dashboard, caught in the breeze from the cracked window, and settled on the console — stained with mustard, like evidence of something too human to erase.

Jeeny: “You ever think shame gets a bad reputation? Like, it’s always the villain in the emotional cast list. But sometimes, shame’s just a sign you care — that you still have standards.”

Jack: “Yeah, but tonight? My standards are medium rare.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Fair. But still — there’s honesty in that. The willingness to own your flaws without irony.”

Jack: “Straight up and honest, like Segura said.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the shame that’s ugly. It’s the hiding.”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. Hiding makes it heavier.”

Jeeny: “So we eat instead.”

Jack: “And laugh.”

Jeeny: “And survive.”

Host: The neon buzzed, stuttering, as if agreeing with them. Outside, a few cars pulled out, their tires hissing softly against the wet pavement. Inside Jack’s car, the smell of salt and warmth lingered like nostalgia refusing to leave.

Jack: “You know, when you think about it, this parking lot — it’s full of stories. Every car’s a little world. Lovers, loners, workers, dreamers. All of them eating something they swore they’d quit.”

Jeeny: “It’s tragic and comforting at the same time. You look around, and suddenly your own shame feels smaller — like part of something communal.”

Jack: “Shared sin.”

Jeeny: “Or shared salvation.”

Jack: “That’s heavy talk for a double-double.”

Jeeny: “Truth has good taste.”

Host: They both laughed quietly, the kind of laughter that breaks tension but leaves warmth behind. The last of the fries disappeared, the soda was nothing but ice. The night had turned quieter now — a kind of velvet stillness that happens when both your stomach and your soul are full enough to stop reaching for more.

Jeeny leaned her head back against the seat, eyes half-closed.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s why people love places like this. Because they forgive you for being human. You can show up messy, hungry, lonely — and still walk away satisfied.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s not judgment. It’s comfort wrapped in paper.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And if that’s not divine, I don’t know what is.”

Host: The sign outside flickered again, humming softly — IN-N-OUT BURGER glowing against the midnight air, as if declaring that redemption was still open for business.

Jack started the car, engine rumbling to life.

Jeeny glanced at the glowing napkin on the dashboard and smiled.

Jeeny: “So, what did we learn tonight?”

Jack: “That shame tastes better with extra cheese.”

Jeeny: “And truth comes with fries.”

Jack: (grinning) “And sometimes, grace shows up in a drive-thru window.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The gospel according to hunger.”

Host: They drove off slowly, the neon light fading in the rearview, replaced by the quiet rhythm of the road.

The night stretched endlessly ahead — imperfect, honest, alive.

And somewhere between the smell of salt and the hum of tires, Tom Segura’s words lingered like laughter in confession —

that shame, when faced head-on,
can taste a lot like truth,
and even in the smallest moments —
like a burger unwrapped in the dark —
there’s something deeply,
hilariously,
human about forgiving yourself
just long enough
to take another bite.