It’s that time of the semester again. The time when we take your meanest, crudest, cringe-worthiest thoughts and put them in print for the whole world to read. So, whole world, strap on your goggles and dive on in. The water is fine. Although, judging from this year’s batch of shoutouts, it’s probably either urine-filled, or infected with an STD.
To the only guy incapable of getting laid in Cancun: Sure makes that preemptive break-up seem pretty silly, huh?
To the girl who wears a baseball cap, jeans, and a sweatshirt with stillettos to Van Pelt after hours: You do know Rosenparty isn’t an actual party, right?
To the wannabe TriDelt on 40th and Pine: You are very big boned and very hairy.
To @afilreis: hi, i’m 24/female/horny … i have to get off here but message me on my windows live messenger name Paris545love@hotmail.com.
To our favorite Glee and Penn Band Member: We spent two hours stalking you on Facebook. It upsets us to see that the highlight of your birthday was getting a space heater, lint roller and Olive Garden gift certificate from your grandma.
To the girl who’s dating the dancing OZ senior: Do you realize that you’re dating the dancing OZ senior?
To Penn students who think “hostess” means “servant”: Yes, I go here. And yes, I spit on your menus.
To my friend’s balding boyfriend: Sometimes I see you in pictures and think, “Who is this dad hanging out with my friends?”
To the underage freshman who left her phone here on Thursday night: Your coach called. She said to call her back when you “GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.” From, The Blarney Stone.
To people who are behind me in line when a new line opens up and then go to the new line instead of me even though I was in front of them in the original line: Not fair!
To Cherry Crush: Sometimes you taste like medicine but sometimes I’m TRYNA BATHE IN YOU.
To my roommate: I’m glad we came to the agreement that washing hands is only for show and swapping toothbrushes is acceptable when drunk. Wondering if we could give peeing in the shower the A-OK? Leave the toilet seat raised if the answer is yes.
To the guy who threw up out of a cab and then ran shirtless into Harrison: I don’t think $14 covered the damages.
To the Sansom houses whose browntown shenanigans wake me up at night: How do you like your eggs in the morning? Consider them on the house.
To the girl in my house who ends every e-mail with a foreboding ellipsis: How are you …
To My Social Psych Professor: Fine, I’ll say it, you’re sexy. You’ve got the Australian accent and the chiseled features and that big … brain (I mean brain, I’ve never seen your penis, even though I suggested I had with an ellipsis). You’re the real deal, Grade A Australian Beef. But quite frankly, I find your grading policies unattractive.
To the girl in my Disability Narratives class who referenced “the cool wheelchair guy in Private Practice”: That was like, really dumb, I thought. I mean, I blushed for you.
To Omega: For the best drinkers on campus, you sure do get alcohol poisoning a lot.
To Cream and Sugar: Thanks for my bagel. But where’s my brownie?
To SDT: This is the only shoutout about SDT that wasn’t written by someone in SDT. We just thought you should know, in case you want to plan some sort of retreat or group therapy session. From, LB Editors.
To people in my writing classes who use the words “micro” and “macro” every other sentence: I have one micro comment and one macro comment. Micro: You have small brains. Macro: I don’t like anything about you.
To the two having sex on the dirty recliner behind the dumpster: You made one homeless man very happy.
To our hot landlord: We know only two people are allowed in the lofted bed, but would you break our lease if you were the third?
To the super Christian guy with the great hair, smile and personality who bleeped my gay-dar the first day I passed him on Locust: Please come out and play
To the bitch playing a game on her phone in the bathroom in Van Pelt: I really had to go.
To the Zete guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer: This isn’t a petting zoo. Can’t touch these humps.
To the girl who took a dump on her desk chair freshman year: I should have known you’d find it socially acceptable to pee in a cab.
To the girl in AXO I hooked up with once during NSO who has not responded to any of my drunk texts throughout the year: I am up to going to your formal if you happen to need a date.
To my Pine street hookup: Only at Penn would deployment to the Israeli defense force be both a pick up line and an excuse not to call the next day.
To the Ladies of Speakman: Sorry you walked in on me having sex in your bed during Fling. From, The Moustache Man.
To the SDT freshman who said she hoped she would be hit in the face at Powderpuff so that Daddy would finally buy her a new nose: We were rooting for you.
To the boy who woke up in a coat closet at Level: I’ll get you out of there as soon as I can find my ticket.
To everyone I’ve snapped at for coming into our room and talking while Lost is on: I’m really not that sorry.
To our friend who plays flip cup like a seal: You’re off the team.
To the Pike junior who threw out my back during sex: It’s called rhythm. Find some.
To the boy who left his Herpes medication out at our mixer: SDT is off the market.
To my neighbor at 40th and Delancey: Just because I’m prying the bars off my windows doesn’t mean I’m breaking into my house and you need to call the police. I’m just tryna tan on my roof! That ain’t a crime!
To the Swedish basketball player: Thanks for the personalized text, but no, my 3 roommates and I will not come over to “snugggleeeee” at 5 a.m.
To the doofus who fell asleep in his tub and proceeded to flood his room and ours: Grow up and start taking showers.
To my English T.A. who dresses like a prudish housewife: I saw you making out with that chick at Copa. Your obsession with uncovering the homoerotic motifs in every novel we read makes much more sense now.
To the guy who looks like Trotsky: Bad choice of a character to impersonate — you lose in the end comrade.
To the mysterious people who did whippets in our kitchen during Fling and left them all over the table: Who are you? And how did you even get into our house
To the guy in my history class that I overheard saying he shaved off his sideburns when he was drunk: You looked weird for three weeks, but you look like Ben Affleck again.
To the sophomore in Off the Beat: You sing and ejaculate like a pre-pubescent boy.
To the guy I slept with during Fling: Your girlfriend was better in bed.
To the bitchy roommate in Harrison: Stop being passive aggressive with the scented spray. If the smell bothers you THAT much either say something or leave and let us fry our chicken in peace.
To J.R.: From poetry slams to slam dunks, you make my heart beat faster.
To the asshole with the bullhorn in Hamilton Court: Calling out to West Philly at 6 a.m. is the kind of stupid shit that gets you killed.
To the football player at the golf party who whipped out his dick and started jacking off: We didn’t realize the theme was mini-golf.
To the PhiDelt who didn’t “trust me”: You’re sweet, but it’s just a blow job.
To my SDT ex-girlfriend: Stop screaming and crying on building stoops. I’m trying to sleep!
To Illinois area codes: Stop submitting to texts-from-last-night.
To the PhiDelts who showered our house in their body fluids: Why did you feel the need to mark our shampoo bottles, make-up remover bottles, ovens and basement as your territory?
To the pink poodle: We’re sorry.
To the R.A. living below me: Sorry I poured my bong water into your open window that one time. And that other time.
To my freshman year friends: Most of you are The-hoes, two of you are Oz-stitutes, one of you dropped out of school and none of you eat. I’m glad I got out when I did.
To Kid Cudi: Can you flix message me that video you took of Snoop on your phone during the concert?
To the kid in the stolen Fling Safe shirt who banged down my door in the quad: I want my alcohol back you cheap bastard.
To the girl named Romeo: Oh that I were a brace upon those knees, that I might touch those legs! Wherefore are you not mine?
To Meg: We worry about you. That’s not true. Everyone in class thinks you’re a weirdo.
To my neighbors on the third floor whose door slamming fights at 3 a.m. are only rivaled by their loud makeup shower sex: I will continue ringing your doorbell at 6 a.m. on my way to practice until this stops.
To the flaming redhead who sprints down locust walk, whom I deemed “the ginger on the loose”: Who let you out of your cage? Did your fire-crotch put you up to this?
To my Penn Presbyterian nurse who was excited for Shoutouts: Thanks for helping me not faint when you did bloodwork!
To the cashiers at Allegro: Just because you can see my name on my credit card doesn’t give you the right to friend me on Facebook.
To the South Asian dance troupe who keeps the entire Radian and surrounding block awake with their sound system: Sorry we pegged one of your “buddies” straight in the chest while egging your house …that part was unintentional.
To the ridiculous swimmer girls who scream “COLLEGE” every time they take a shot: There are some things that aren’t okay, even in college.
To the boy who starts conversations, “Well this is awkward”: Yes, this is awkward.
To the girl who tried to swipe into the library with a condom instead of her Penncard: That metal bar is all the protection the stacks need.
To my little little little: You’re annoying, and bringing down the rest of the lineage.
To the girl in two of my classes who asks me for lotion every single day: If I didn’t have lotion yesterday, last week and last month why the hell would I have it today?
To all the Penn students who used to be fat: If I backwards Facebook stalk you, it’s like watching The Biggest Loser.
To the gymnast that pooped her pants at the wrestling house: I didn’t know that place could get much dirtier.
To the people in my class who didn’t know what Al Jazeera was: Why exactly are you in a global journalism seminar?
To the girl who closed-mouth kissed Kweder: You. Are. Awesome.
To my friend’s doppelganger whose thong I snapped in Blarney: I was high. It was out.
To the Theta senior who dressed up as Morticia Addams: It’s not Halloween anymore — you can smile now.
To the junior who crowned herself Queen of Acapulco: Rolling six nights in a row and sucking on a pacifier confirms my belief that you should never be allowed near children for fear of you eating them.
To the kid who looks exactly like Steve Holt: I’ve taken several photos of you on my phone and sent them to my friends.
To the guy who rested his limp dick on the pool table: We were in the middle of a game.
To the girl who is obsessed with expanding her brocabulary: Bro my god, go bro a penis.
To Tabard: The coke bottle in the hair thing doesn’t have the same effect anymore. All your pledges just look like Lady Gaga impersonators.
To the Theta that vommed on my dick: Don’t use my penis to trigger your bulimia.
To Stuart: Would a rugby-themed wedding be agreeable to you? Love, Street
To the people who go to Quizzo on Tuesdays: Thanks for bringing down the curve where it matters.
To Drexel: Fuck Drexel.
To the TriDelt girls who dyed their dog blue: When are you going to teach it the TriDelt hand signal?
To Pi Kap’s newest 28: Home Depot’s having a sale this weekend – perhaps that’d be a cheaper way to surround yourself with tools.
To the girl I overheard in the VP bathroom: I don’t care that you aren’t a morning person. Hearing that you need your boyfriend’s dick to get up in the morning was a definite TMI.
To Theta: We missed your “A More Positive You” workshop. Can we borrow your notes on kicking the coke habit, getting a personality and keeping your legs closed?
To the Basement: The Living Room may be a step above you, but it’s still beneath us. Love, The Roof.
To my Allegro stalker: Saying hello through the window — okay. Over the microphone — I can handle. Buying me an omelet — not okay, but thanks.
To my roommate who brought home my coworker at 3:30 a.m.: Yes I was awake, and yes this will make work awkward on Thursday.
To TriDelt: It’s been a while. War of the Roses and Powderpuff didn’t help. From, Your Dignity.
To the members of Penn Singers: Look at your lives. Look at your choices.
To our roommate: If your trash pile in the common room gets any bigger, we’re going to make you sleep in it. Seriously.
To a capella groups: Which instrument makes a “Jin jin jin jo jin jin” sound?
To my neighbors on Baltimore that use the 3rd floor window as a urinal: Golden showers do NOT bring May flowers.
To the guy in my writing class who calls every movie a “GREAT FILM, GREAT FILM”: Even Mallrats? Seriously?
To the obnoxious sophomore girls with their own language on Facebook: You are BL, NFM and SSAF. We think. But we can’t understand a thing you say.
To Penn’s least favorite music blogger: Your terrible puns and purposefully obscure allusions make us sick. Please stop, seriousl-Y.
To CampusFood: No, I do not want you to tell my Facebook friends or my Twitter followers that I just ordered 30 wings and two pizzas from Allegros.
To the Asian in Harrison with bleached hair and colored contacts: You are scary to look at, and your cologne makes riding in an elevator with you feel like being in a gas chamber.
To the guy who tried to teach me how to play Rock Band: You’re lucky my shoulders aren’t made of buzzsaws in real life.
To Sex Panther: I don’t know if you’re talented, but I also don’t care, because I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than saying “I’m a Sex Panther Fan.”
To the future Penn-Law student who still works at OFSA: Is getting shouted out, like, the best thing that’s ever happened to you? Or was that being Culturally Elite? From, The Bitch with an eating disorder and greasy, unwashed bangs.
To the guy who drives a Range Rover around campus: Didn’t I see you on an episode of My Super Sweet Sixteen? Or was that another fabulously rich biatch?
To the author of the previous shoutout: Wait, what were you thinking about?
To a certain former UTB blogger: You are the cutest. My girlfriend and I would like to adopt you, please.
To a certain dynamic duo from Beige Block: Everyone knows you just invite people to pregame with you so you can have an audience for your choreographed dances. You must have been the coolest girls at summer camp!
To the hottie in my meditation class: I’ve spent the entire semester fantasizing about all of the things I would like to do to you, most of which include your skateboard?
To Mask and Wig: I have never gone to your show and I never will, because musical comedy is dumb and stupid, especially in drag.
To the quad dweller who we recently exposed to collegeacb.com: What a coincidence that you made the list of hottest freshman just one hour later!
To the guy who tried to work me into his girlfriend’s class schedule: No, I will not have sex with you Mondays, Wednesdays or Fridays.
To the girl whose last name means “vagina”: I met someone from your high school today. He said everyone thought you were a lesbian. I do too.
To the TA who I recently hooked up with at a downtown crush party: Something about you makes me always want to participate.
To whoever left My Little Ponies on my desk: Thank you.
To the guy at Blarney who compared his dick to an aspirin and told me to “take it down my throat”: What’s your success rate on that?
To the exchange student who left a box of her belongings in our closet because she didn’t want to take them home or throw them out: Thanks for the vaginal cream. We’ll miss you too.
To TEP boys: I don’t think that Haggadah said to smoke the bitter herb on Seder.
To a certain younger PhiDelt: You’re lucky you’re so cute, because you can’t dance and you kiss like a llama.
To the TriDelt on my hall: Between all the things you’ve said in your sleep and all the things you’ve told me when completely drunk, I know more about you than you could imagine. PS: Hope the test turns out negative!
To every a capella group on campus: I couldn’t care less if you’re going to miss each other next year.
To the girl I call Tush: I love you.
To the frat boy who used his missing Penncard as the excuse for not getting any: I would have signed you in if I wanted you.
To the gangly white kid who was grinding up on me on the floor of the concert: Just because you were smoking a blunt in my face doesn’t make you cool. And the all black track suit didn’t help.
To N.A.: NA means NA.
To the self-proclaimed “hottest girl in AXO”: I don’t know what’s more embarrassing. The fact that your boyfriend pees in your bed, or that you always get stuck washing the sheets after.
To the girl who wanted to rescind her shoutout because it would wreak havoc on her life: You should be proud you had sex in nine places around campus.
To the girl who forgot to tell me that she had a NuvaRing: That was the worst surprise ever.
To the guy who hooked up with a 66-year-old during Mardi Gras: Bet she didn’t have to lift her shirt too high to get beads.
To the guy who looks like Hurley from Lost: Sorry I called you Hurley when you tried to get into my party. And also, I’m sorry I let you into my party, because you were a complete stranger.
To the upperclassman in SK that I’ve been hooking up with: If you keep hiding me from your friends by going to bars I can’t get into, I’ll stop buying you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from McLelland.
To my dick: How come you only work when it’s just you and me?