A few friends and myself had traveled the two hours to Atlantic City, where we had reserved a hotel room at the brand new Borgata Hotel and Casino. Since I was not driving, the festivities began at our local watering hole several hours prior to the trip. Of course, my favorite adult beverage -- bourbon whiskey -- was liberally consumed. Before we hopped on the Parkway for the trip, we decided it would be a good idea to swing by Taco Bell. Pretty drunk, I chowed down four beef-and-bean burritos in the parking lot.
In retrospect, this was a bad idea.
We got to the hotel, checked into our room, and immediately went to the casino floor for some blackjack. For once, I was actually doing pretty well, even though I was again consuming large amounts of whiskey while gambling.
And then it hit me. Something was afoul in my intestines. It was not happy, and it demanded immediate release. I tried ignoring it for a few minutes, and it subsided. And then it came back. Nature was screaming, and would not be ignored.
I stood up and it hit me even harder. I shoveled my chips into my pocket while squeezing my cheeks together and did the bunny hop to the nearest men's room. I got into a stall and dropped my pants while simultaneously squatting. Unfortunately, quite a bit of the nastiest poo my body had ever released got all over my boxers.
Ten minutes later, it was over. I looked at my soiled undergarments and realized that it was best to abandon them next to the toilet. I threw them to the side, used half a roll of toilet paper to clean up, and walked back to the blackjack table.
When I sat down, it looked like my chip stack was significantly smaller than what I had left the table with. I chalked it up to being intoxicated and not paying attention, and I continued to play. I ended up winning about $150. Not bad. On my way back to the room, I thought I saw several of the employees pointing at me and suppressing giggles with their hands. Again, I assumed it was the whiskey. I went to my room and passed out.
The next morning, our designated driver was in much worse shape than I was, so I drove. Halfway home, I was pulled over by a state trooper. For the life of me, I couldn't find my license. He forgave the speeding, but ticketed me for failure to produce a driver's license. There went my winnings.
A week and a half later, a random package arrived in the mail. It was from the Borgata. Inside the package was my driver's license, a cashiers check for $93.12 -- the balance of the money I had lost, minus shipping costs -- and, no joke, a brand new pair of boxers.
So lets recap. Apparently, when I slipped down my pants in the bathroom, my driver's license (which had been removed from my wallet when I was carded at the blackjack table) and $100.00 in chips had fallen out of my pocket. I likely then threw my boxers right on top of the chips and my license. So a member of the Borgata staff must have found all of this and relayed this story to other members of the staff.
I doubt I will ever summon the courage to return to the Borgata. But I commend them for their service.