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Sports News Without Fear, Favor or Compromise

Joe Torre, Foiled By His Own Enormous Hog. Allegedly. GREAT MOMENTS IN DRUNKEN HOOKUP FAILURE

Illustration for article titled Joe Torre, Foiled By His Own Enormous Hog. Allegedly. GREAT MOMENTS IN DRUNKEN HOOKUP FAILURE

Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase four heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.


Man, it's always the most random white male celebrities who turn to out to have big dicks. Dan Rather? Really? Now one reader says Dodgers manager Joe Torre also has a fucking maple bat hanging between his legs.


Bobby (NOTE: Story unverified and probably false):

I know a certain character, let's call him "D" who used to work with the Atlanta Braves back in the late 60's and who is now retired and living in the Caribbean. He told me of a story when he was working with the Braves organization as player personnel that he would sometimes go out on the town with the players.

One particular night he ends up going out with Joe Torre to a strip club, and Torre falls head over heels for this cute Colombian stripper. Joe gets "D" to talk the girl up and gets permission to use his car for some "backseat partying". So after awhile, "D" is chatting up another stripper in the parking lot, waiting for Joe to finish and he sees some kind of commotion and a little shriek as the girl gets out of the car and slams the car door. She walks up to "D" and says...

"Your friend, too BIG!"

And walks away. This prompts "D" to go back to his car and ask Joe what happened.

Joe's reply: "Well, I guess I just was to big for her. Let's go home, buddy."

That Joe. So levelheaded, even when he's hollowing out a Colombian stripper. DEMASIADO GRANDE! I should have known Torre had a big dick. He has a huge nose and drinks Bigelow tea. IT ALL ADDS UP.

Anyway, this completely changes my view of Joe Torre now. I don't know about you, but whenever I find out some famous person has a huge cock, that becomes the first thing I think about whenever their name pops up (because I'm gay, you see). It becomes a prefix to their name, not unlike Heisman Trophy Winner or Two-Time Oscar Nominee. He's not Joe Torre anymore. He is now Man Who Is Hung Like A Bear, Joe Torre. He joins Huey Lewis on the list of guys who make me pipe up, "By the way, that guy's got a HUGE COCK," whenever their name enters a conversation. That's just the way it goes. A big dick is more than a big dick. It's a permanent brand.

So anyway, there you have it. Joe Torre has a big hog. Can't you just picture it now? Can't you just envision a long white skin lasso dangling from his bushy black Italian pube cloud? Can't you just picture ol' Joe under the bleachers, poling some chick in a firm but classy manner? DON'T YOU NOW HAVE A PERFECT PORTRAIT OF HIS ENORMOUS FUCK OBELISK BURNED INTO YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM FOREVER AND EVER?


Let's get to the rest of the stories.

Agent Shittypants:

I'm conversing with a random NYU girl and suggest we go back to her place. She agrees without hesitation. FUCKING AWESOME. I hit my friend up for $5 to pay for a cab (which actually was enough to get you more than 10 blocks at the time), and we get in a cab and make out all the way to her dorm.

We get there, she signs me in with security, and we get in the elevator. I'm feeling a little gassy on the elevator, and as the doors open up and we walk off I decide to let one go in the hopes any smell stayed in the elevator (sorry next passenger). Well, it was not just a fart. I had in fact shit myself. I immediately clenched my ass shut and penguin-walked behind her towards her room. We get in – "can I use your bathroom?" She of course says yes, I walk in, close the door, lock the door, take off my pants, and proceed to unleash a liquid explosion in her toilet.

I assess the damage with clarity the likes of which only Adderall had previously provided. My boxers are totaled – liquefied crap covering everything – glistening in the bathroom light. The toilet bowl completely brown – the water, the sides above the water line up to the rim – it looked like a crockpot full of R-Kelly's Doo Doo Butter. I clean my ass – the type requiring you to clean the sides and bottom of your ass cheeks multiple times, each time wiping further and further away from the crack, mystified that shit exploded and bounced off the water so far and wide. I wipe the inside of the toilet bowl – the whole time standing half naked with no pants on. She knocks on the door, because she had to pee. "uh, give me a minute, almost done, sorry." I gingerly fold the boxers as best I can, put back on my jeans (no visible signs of shit on the outside) and put the boxers in my back pocket, scrub my hands clean, flush one more time, make sure that there are no signs of what just happened, and let her into the bathroom.

At this point, I did not know what to do with the boxers, my previous clarity returning to a drunken panic. They surely can't stay in my back pocket. Do I throw them in the dorm hallway? Out the window? She had a plastic bag of trash in her hallway with some a half-eaten Wendy's sandwich, a few used napkins, and some other trash, so I buried them there and tied it shut. (totally should have thrown them out the window).

I decide, the way to find out if I can proceed with sexual relations is to briefly sit on her bed – if I can smell shit, its best to just abort this mission and head home, if I can't, lets party. I smell shit. She comes out of the bathroom, and Im sitting on her fucking floor like a moron with my legs crossed. Rather than boning, we stay up late talking – she tells me how her dad died 5 months ago. The whole time I'm just reliving what the fuck just happened barely paying attention to what she's talking about. I wind up leaving at 5AM or so, laughing in my cab ride home, totally defeated. I never saw her again.


Oof. The dead dad is just icing on the shit sundae.


A few years ago when I was a junior in college, a large group of us went to a bar for one of our friend Sarah's birthday. Because it was a special occasion, we all took taxis downtown instead of just walking to one of the nearby dives as usual.

After a few hours of heavy drinking some of us decided to head back to our apartment to continue the party. Me, Sarah, and two of my buddies caught the first cab back to my place. Upon arrival one of them put on some of 80's music to set the mood as we continued to party and waited for the others to arrive. Sarah and I started dancing in the living room, and soon she pulled me across the room and sat down on one of those wooden table chairs. She then smiled and asked me to strip for her for her birthday.

Without missing a beat, I ripped off my shirt and swung it around my head while dancing. I continued the entertainment by unfastening my belt and shaking my ass around and stuff, trying to plan my next move. Across the room my buddies were getting a kick out of it and I heard one of them scream out "USE THE POWER MOVE". Almost instinctively I threw my leg behind her head, which resulted in my junk being positioned right up against her face. I then started a series of about ten pelvic thrusts, and somehow managing to keep my balance with my grounded leg. Rick Springfield and I were like a team out there. A performance for the ages. At least it felt that way at the time.

All of a sudden the door opened, I turned my head and body around to see who was about to witness the majesty, and I collapsed to the floor. I started to realize that hooking up was not going to be an option, and soon after that I had to go to the hospital. I had a torn MCL and ACL in my left knee.


That's the dark side of Chippendale's no one talks about. More knee injuries than the WNBA.


During my first year of law school, I hooked up with a girl in my class on a few occasions (a bad idea in general, but that's neither here nor there). One night, she and I and a large group of our classmates were at this bar which had two main bar rooms, one of which was hilariously miscategorized as a VIP area. Some of our classmates were already in that area and got us in for free. Because this bar was generally rife with underage kids, they gave out those paper and adhesive wristbands—one at the main entrance and one for the VIP area.

After a couple hours of drinking, I suggested that my lady friend and I take it back to my place, which was a short walk away. Things were going swimmingly. Then, in my drunken state, I decided I needed to get those stupid wristbands off my arm before proceeding. I got out of bed and went to the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest fucking knife that I owned at the time. I put the knife under the first wristband and, aiming towards my goddamn face, pulled back hard to cut through the wristband. Success. On round two with the second wristband, though, I stabbed myself hard square in the face. It was about a half inch above my lip and about an inch below my left eye. I was bleeding like a motherfucker, and I yelled out "Jesus Christ!" She came running from the bedroom, saw blood pouring down my face, and LAUGHED when I told her what I had done before helping me clean myself up. Luckily, I didn't need any stitches and didn't put my goddamn eye out. Unluckily, I failed to get laid that night.



God, I fucking hate wristbands. They always take a tuft of arm hair with them.

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