After recent reminders of one of my past undoo-ings, I feel compelled to come clean on an event of which I am not too proud. This is a tale I haven't even shared with my husband. On so many levels, it's just wrong. Everything choice I made in this event was very bad.

Back in the late 90's, I was working as an intern in Philly. One weekend I went to Dewey Beach in Delaware with one of the guys I worked with. (Many years later, I can't help but mentally change the name to "Dooey Beach.") We were sort of involved with each other. We also loved to eat hot wings and drink lots of beer. Recipe for disaster? Sure!

On this particular weekend, one of the local wings joints was sponsoring a wing-eating contest. I was quite proud of my ability to down large amounts of atomic wings and chase them with Yuenglings or kamikaze shots. So when we saw the contest was being held across the street from the condo we rented for the summer, I just couldn't refuse! I was confident that I could do well -- and then, better yet, walk casually across the street and up the three flights of stairs to the condo and sleep off any ill-effects of my overindulgence.

With the support of our friends, I felt brave enough to go for it. I signed up, signed a waiver, and waited for the event to begin. About fifty guys had entered the contest, but only ten other girls. We glanced nervously at each other. We were all roughly the same age and probably at about the same level of intoxication. The rules were recited to us and we began the feast.

A couple girls bowed out almost immediately, as did a lot of the guys. "Pussies," I thought to myself. I continued to eat the atomic wings and remained quite cool, despite the beads of sweat building up on my forehead and upper lip. As more people walked away, this inner calm came over me. It was like I couldn't feel the heat of the spices anymore, and my tummy wasn't full, and somehow there was ample room for more and more wings. I tuned out the crowd that stood watching in amazement. It was a very zen moment, even if in the most bizarre setting.

When the clock stopped, they almost had to snap me out of it while they counted up the wings. As we awaited the results, I could tell I was the winner just by the gaze of the crowd at my plate mounded over with chicken bones. The crowd was much more interested in seeing how many the winning man ate, but they still couldn't keep their eyes off the skinny chick who had just downed thirty (!) atomic wings. The judges quickly came to a decision, and the guy and I were called up to the little stage in the parking lot to accept our grand prizes: a tee-shirt. How lame!

I didn't care, though -- I was still basking in the glow of victory. Or maybe I really was glowing from the atomic wings now burning up my innards.

With the contest over and the crowd dispersed, I walked proudly with my buddies across the street and up the three flights of stairs to the condo, holding my lame tee shirt like a trophy. Once we reached the condo and stepped into the air-conditioning I immediately felt invigorated. I suggested we go hit a couple clubs before we all got too tired. A bad choice, again.

We actually only hit two clubs and kept the partying very local, venturing only one block away from the condo. But it was still enough stir up an angry storm in my digestive tract. People at the clubs recognized me as the girl who won the wing-eating contest and bought me drinks -- which, of course, I smugly accepted. We danced the night away, totally polluted by the alcohol and wings and my euphoric sense of accomplishment, before retiring to our quiet condo.

Amazingly, I managed to walk that block with no difficulty and climb the stairs with no obvious signs of impairment. But once that cool air hit me and the cinnamon-scented potpourri by the door stung my nose, I knew the game was up. I bolted for the half-bath right by the front door. The vomiting commenced without any delay. I knew this would be the worst episode of puking in my life thus far simply by the sheer amount of mucous that flowed shortly before the volcano erupted. But all that mucous didn't prepare my mouth, throat, nose, and eyes for the chemical burns I would suffer from seeing all those wings make a return visit.

I emerged from the bathroom and quietly excused myself, announcing that I was going to bed. After getting nude and lying down for three seconds, I jumped out of bed and dashed into the bathroom next to the bedroom for the second round of my barfarama. I thought a shower would be in my best interest. But somehow I couldn't figure out how to turn on the faucet, so I just lay down on the shower floor and fell asleep. The only wise decision made that whole weekend was when my friends decided to let me sleep in the shower. I must have puked six more times that night before finally sleeping peacefully until eleven the next morning.

When I went back downstairs for breakfast, the rest of the house was amazed that I was alive and walking. Once breakfast was done, we all chose to go mini-golfing. So what if the hangover was creeping up on me and the daily temperature was going to be in the mid 90's? I mini-golfed with the crew, albeit somewhat subdued and totally out of character. After lunch we decided to hit the beach and get a good sunburn while trying to come up with a plan for that night's festivities.

OK, dear PoopReporters, here's where the shit hits the fan. I lay on the beach for about an hour before I felt the first grumble come from my guts. The air was hot, the sand was hot, my guts were hot. I glanced over my shoulder toward the condo building. It was within sight -- but there was the length of beach, the boardwalk steps and the boardwalk itself, the sidewalk, the street, the other sidewalk, the three flights of stairs, the locked door, and that damn scented potpourri all serving as obstacles that would have to be conquered before I could spell R-E-L-I-E-F.

Then I heard the roar of the ocean, smelled the ocean breeze, and saw that it was all good. I leapt up from the towel and announced I was going to take a dip to cool off. I ran into the water until it was up to my neck. I quickly unrolled the top of my bikini bottom until it was below bunghole level. Then I let loose with the worst form of pollution I could deal to the Atlantic. The water around me quickly got murky and stinky -- and flakes of poop began sticking to my arms and my back and getting in my hair!

I began to panic. Someone would surely see this! And maybe even recognize me as the girl who won the wings eating contest the night before!

I tried to move to the side a little to escape the cloud. The motion of the waves and the motion of my guts just made things worse. I pulled up my bikini bottom just in time for a rogue wave to crash over my head and tumble me up onto the beach. I lay there dazed for a moment before my boyfriend came running over. I was shaking and felt very weak, but I wasn't quite sure if I was still covered in feces or just plain sand.

I stood up slowly and told him I was okay, and that I wanted to go back in the water. I staggered back into the ocean, but each time I got waist-high in water I'd get knocked over. Maybe it was the Atlantic's way of keeping this litterbug out of its waters.

I'm not sure how I managed to walk across the street, but something had changed. As I made the walk, it seemed all eyes were once again on me -- but not in admiration this time. I took a shower and laid down for a long nap.

My boyfriend and I left the following morning to go back to Philly. The car ride was mostly silent. Did he know about the poop in the ocean? He kept the poker face all the way home while I kept my green face from his glance. I swore I'd never drink so much, eat so much, dance so much, or poop in the ocean again.