Debauchery: True Stories of Wild Nights and Regrettable Decisions

Wild nights, regrettable decisions, and stories that start with "So anyway..."

Welcome to the Debauchery Archives

Every civilization has its historians. The Greeks had Herodotus. The Romans had Tacitus. And now, in the grand tradition of documenting human behavior at its most spectacularly unhinged, Balls Deep International has us. Welcome to Debauchery, the section of this site dedicated entirely to the stories that start with an open bar, a bad idea, or a flight to a country where the legal drinking age is "can you reach the counter," and end with someone explaining to a hotel manager, a law enforcement officer, or a disappointed family member exactly how things got this out of hand.

These are not hypothetical scenarios. These are not creative writing exercises. Every story on this page is rooted in the real, messy, occasionally illegal, and always deeply regrettable experiences of actual human beings who, for reasons that remain unclear even to them, decided that the appropriate response to "should we do this?" was "absolutely, and let's also do that other thing nobody mentioned."

What Counts as Debauchery?

Glad you asked, because the line is blurrier than your vision at 2 AM after seven drinks you didn't need. Debauchery, as defined by this section, includes but is not limited to: office parties that require new corporate policies to be written; bachelor parties where the groom goes missing for several hours and is later discovered performing unauthorized employment at a casino; wedding receptions that end in ejection, public speaking incidents, and stale dinner rolls; and international trips to cities known for two things, neither of which involves museums, regardless of what you told your mother.

If you've ever woken up in a city you didn't fall asleep in, if you've ever been asked to leave an establishment and briefly considered negotiating, if you've ever ruined a formal event simply by being yourself at full volume, these stories are for you. Not because they'll teach you anything. They won't. Nobody learns from debauchery. That's sort of the defining characteristic.

Why We Document This

Because shame fades, but a good story is forever. Every cautionary tale on this page started as somebody's worst night and became their best anecdote. We believe in the transformative power of sharing your most embarrassing moments with strangers on the internet, not because it heals anything, but because it's funny, and funny is the only currency that never depreciates.

If you're here from our Degeneracy section, you already understand the general vibe. The difference is subtle: degeneracy involves money and gambling. Debauchery involves everything else. The overlap is significant. Sometimes the same night qualifies for both categories. Those are the nights that end up on our Gaped page, where the damage is so complete it deserves its own classification.

A Note on Anonymity and Accuracy

Some names in these stories have been changed. Others have been erased entirely, either out of legal caution or because the person involved has politely requested to be forgotten, which we respect, mostly. The events themselves are as accurate as the memory of someone who was, by definition, not making great choices at the time. We stand by the emotional truth, even if the specific details of "how we ended up in Rotterdam" remain permanently unresolved.

Read on. Judge freely. And if you have a debauchery story of your own that needs a home, know that this section is always growing. Because people never stop making terrible decisions at parties, in foreign countries, and anywhere alcohol is served without proper supervision. It's the one constant in an uncertain world, and we wouldn't have it any other way. Now, if you need a break from wild nights and want some nihilistic rants about modern life, we've got those too.

The Office Christmas Party That Got Our Entire Department Put on a Corporate Watchlist

I work in accounting. Accountants are not known for their wild behavior. We're known for spreadsheets, sensible footwear, and leaving parties by 9 PM because we have "an early morning." So when I tell you that our office Christmas party resulted in a company-wide policy revision, seventeen HR complaints, and a permanent ban from the Marriott Courtyard in Schaumburg, Illinois, I need you to understand the gravity of what occurred.

It started, as all disasters do, with an open bar.

The company, in a moment of catastrophic optimism, decided that this year's party would have "no drink tickets." Unlimited. Free. A river of alcohol flowing toward people who spend 50 hours a week staring at numbers and quietly resenting their life choices. Management thought this would "boost morale." They were half right. Morale was boosted. So was everything else.

Hour 1 (7:00 PM - 8:00 PM): Everything is fine. People are mingling. The CFO is making small talk about his golf handicap. Someone from IT is explaining cryptocurrency to no one in particular. Susan from Accounts Receivable is on her second chardonnay and making comments about the DJ that could generously be described as "flirtatious."

Hour 2 (8:00 PM - 9:00 PM): The wheels begin to wobble. Gary from Payroll has removed his tie and is using it as a headband. Three junior analysts have started a conga line that nobody asked for. Someone has changed the music from "festive classics" to "aggressive 2000s hip-hop." The CFO is no longer talking about golf. He's talking about his divorce. In detail. To the coat check attendant.

Hour 3 (9:00 PM - 10:00 PM): Complete structural collapse of professional decorum.

What I witnessed in this hour still haunts me. I will describe it in clinical terms because I am an accountant and that's how I cope.

Harold, our 58-year-old department manager who has never expressed an emotion stronger than "mild satisfaction," was discovered attempting to crowdsurf during "Mr. Brightside." There were not enough people to support him. He fell. He got back up. He tried again.

Susan from Accounts Receivable was no longer making comments to the DJ. She was behind the DJ booth. She had commandeered the microphone. She was giving a speech about "what this company REALLY thinks about women in finance." It was uncomfortable. It was also entirely accurate.

Someone, and we still don't know who, had ordered $400 worth of additional appetizers to the party and put it on the company card. These appetizers included fourteen orders of mozzarella sticks and something called a "seafood tower" that I'm fairly certain was meant for a wedding.

Two people from different departments who had apparently been having a secret office romance decided that tonight was the night to announce it. They announced it by kissing on the dance floor. Then the table. Then near the emergency exit where security gently asked them to relocate.

Hour 4 (10:00 PM - 11:00 PM): The Marriott Courtyard Incident begins.

I don't have all the details because I was in the bathroom having what I can only describe as "a moment." But from what I've reconstructed through witness testimony and the subsequent legal documents:

Gary from Payroll decided the party needed "more energy" and pulled the fire alarm. This was not a drill. This was Gary, shirtless, with his tie still on his head, evacuating 200 people into a December parking lot in suburban Illinois.

The fire department came. They were not pleased. The hotel manager was less pleased. Our CEO, who had been discreetly leaving early, was photographed by a local news crew standing next to a fire truck looking like a man who had just watched his company's reputation immolate in real-time.

The Aftermath:

Monday morning came with an email titled "RE: Friday's Event - Mandatory All-Hands Meeting."

The meeting was 90 minutes long. There was a PowerPoint. The PowerPoint had a slide titled "What Not To Do At Company Functions" that was clearly created over the weekend by someone in HR who was not okay.

New policies implemented: Drink tickets will now be limited to three per person. All future events will have a "professional dress code" explicitly defined (because apparently we needed to specify that "shirtless" is not professional). No employee is permitted to interact with DJ equipment under any circumstances. A security presence will be "enhanced." The Marriott Courtyard in Schaumburg is no longer an approved vendor.

Gary was not fired, which surprised everyone. He was, however, "reassigned" to a satellite office 45 minutes away. He carpools now. He seems happier, actually.

Susan from Accounts Receivable got promoted two months later. Unrelated, allegedly.

The two people from the secret office romance are now engaged. They credit the party with "giving them the courage to be open about their love." I credit the party with giving me lifelong trust issues around company-sponsored events.

The seafood tower, for what it's worth, was delicious. I ate most of it during the fire alarm evacuation. If everything else is falling apart, you might as well have crab legs.

This year's party is scheduled for next month. It will be held at a bowling alley. There will be two drink tickets per person. The email stressed this five times. We're all pretending we're going to behave. We are not going to behave. We never learn. That's sort of the point.

We Lost the Groom in Vegas and Found Him Running a Blackjack Table

The bachelor party started at 9 PM on Friday. By 3 AM Saturday, we had lost the groom. Not "lost track of" - actually lost him. Like a child at a county fair, except the child was 34 years old and the county fair was the Bellagio.

Here's what we knew: His name was Marcus. He was getting married in six days. The last confirmed sighting had him doing shots of something green with a woman who claimed to be a "spiritual advisor" from Reno. Then he vanished. Gone. Evaporated into the neon void.

We searched everywhere. The slots. The bars. The parking garage for reasons none of us could articulate. Nothing. We filed a missing persons report with hotel security. The guy behind the desk didn't even look up. "Bachelor party?" he asked. We nodded. He sighed and handed us a map of the hotel with certain areas circled. "Check these spots. They always end up in these spots."

Hour four of the search, we found him. But we didn't just find him. We found him behind a blackjack table, dealing cards to actual paying customers.

Apparently, Marcus had wandered into an employee area, convinced a pit boss that he was "the new guy," and had been dealing cards for two and a half hours. He'd made three separate players very happy and one player absolutely furious. He'd also, somehow, been tipped $180 in cash.

The casino was... remarkably calm about the whole situation. Marcus apologized. The pit boss apologized. We apologized. There was paperwork. Marcus signed something that he definitely should have read first. Then they let us go with a "please don't come back this weekend" that felt more like a suggestion than a ban.

The wedding went fine. Marcus's new wife still doesn't know about the blackjack incident. She thinks he spent that night "at a show." In a way, he did. He was the show. The greatest show none of us asked for.

I Got Banned From My Own Cousin's Wedding Reception

In my defense, the bar was open and the DJ was playing Shaggy.

My cousin Stephanie got married last month. Beautiful ceremony. Touching vows. The whole thing. Then the reception started, and somewhere between hour one and hour three, I transformed from "supportive family member" to "the reason we need to have a family meeting."

It began with the champagne toast. Then the wine with dinner. Then the post-dinner whiskey that someone's uncle kept pouring. Then the bar opened, and I decided that my body was a temple that deserved to be desecrated.

The Timeline of Destruction:

8:00 PM - Caught on camera doing the worm across the dance floor. Acceptable.
8:45 PM - Gave an impromptu speech about "the importance of love" that was not on the program. Questionable.
9:30 PM - Challenged the best man to an arm wrestling match. Lost badly. Broke a centerpiece.
10:15 PM - Attempted to DJ. Was removed from the DJ booth. Allegedly said things to the DJ that cannot be repeated.
11:00 PM - Found in the coat check room "reorganizing" the coats by "vibe."

The final straw came when I decided to give Stephanie's new husband some "marriage advice." I don't remember what I said. Nobody will tell me what I said. But based on the reactions, it was either deeply profound or categorically inappropriate. Given the context, I'm guessing the latter.

Security escorted me out. The venue's actual security, not a family member doing them a favor. I tried to take a bottle of wine with me. They said no. I negotiated for a dinner roll. They said fine.

Stephanie has not returned my calls. The family group chat has been suspiciously quiet. I've been informed that I'm "on probation" for all future family events, whatever that means.

The dinner roll was stale. Karma works fast.

The Amsterdam Trip That My Friends Refuse to Discuss

Amsterdam canals at night during a chaotic trip abroad

We went to Amsterdam for "culture." We saw exactly one museum. We were asked to leave that museum.

Four guys. Five days. One city known globally for two very specific things that I cannot name directly but that you absolutely understand. We had an itinerary. The itinerary lasted approximately nine hours before we abandoned it in favor of "going with the flow."

Day One: Arrived. Checked into the hotel. Lost Mike within forty-five minutes. Found Mike at a cheese shop having what he described as "a spiritual experience with aged gouda." Ate dinner. Went to sleep early. This was the last responsible thing we did.

Day Two through Day Four: [REDACTED]

Day Five: Woke up in a hostel. We did not book a hostel. None of us remember how we got to the hostel. The hostel was in a different city. Not a different part of Amsterdam - a different city entirely. We were in Rotterdam. Rotterdam is thirty minutes from Amsterdam by train. None of us remember taking a train.

We pieced together fragments. There was a boat involved at some point. Someone bought a painting from a street artist that now hangs in Kevin's bathroom and makes guests deeply uncomfortable. Brian has a tattoo he didn't have before, on a part of his body he didn't know you could tattoo. I have six hundred photos on my phone, and every single one is of a different canal. Just canals. Hours of canals. I apparently became obsessed with canals.

We don't talk about Amsterdam. When someone mentions the Netherlands, we change the subject. When someone asks about European travel recommendations, we suggest literally anywhere else. The group chat from that trip has been archived. The photos have been deleted. The memories remain, fragmented and haunting, like a dream you can't quite shake.

Kevin's wife found the painting. She has questions. Kevin has no answers. Nobody has answers. Amsterdam took our answers and kept them.