The text you have all been dying to read is finally here: the introductory paragraph to this semester’s batch of side–splitting, love–declaring and downright venomous Shoutouts. What’s that? You don’t give a shit about the intro?! Fine then, here are your Shoutouts, you big jerks! Oh, by the way, apparently you all have small dicks and vomit during sex.
To our favorite columnist: Please don’t “Say Anything” ever again.
To Insomnia Cookies: When we wrote on the comments section of CampusFood, “HURRY UP!!!! WE’RE STONED!!!!!” we meant it. You were too slow… and we were too high.
To the coolest people alive: Couldn’t you find yourselves hipper jobs than toasting bagels at Capogiro?
To the boy I met at shabbat dinner: I can’t believe you tried to eat me out on Yom Kippur.
To The Yellow Brick Road: You may beg us to enter through the back door, but I think your house DJ already has that covered.
To the Pike that tried to get me pregnant: It didn’t work. You owe me 20 bucks.
To the gentleman who would like all of us to write kinder shoutouts: Fuck you. Fuck your opinions. Fuck your fucking friendliness. Fuck.
To a particularly conscious senior: Your hot bod doesn’t make up for your small penis and premature ejaculation. You’re lucky the path to Nirvana doesn’t pass between a woman’s legs.
To the A’s senior who booty–texts me: You’re hot, but people warn me that you will inevitably request that I do coke off your dick. So I get intimidated.
To my old like, totes BFF: Heyyyyyyy sluttttttt! It’s so totally lamesiesssss that TriDelt like, made you fucking suck so much.
To the (clearly freshman) basketball fan who thinks we’re losing because we aren’t cheering loudly enough: Sit down. Shut up. And get ready for four years of disappointment.
To the girl on Pine who slept, cooked, and painted naked all summer with her blinds open and the lights on: Nice iPad.
To my roommate who gets changed in the bathroom: Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m gonna peek around your fat rolls to get a look at your junk.
To the guy who “accidentally” streamed the wrong bodily fluid down my throat: “I couldn’t help it” is not a good excuse after you’ve been potty trained.
To the girl who failed to create an anonymous email account before submitting a Shoutout in which she admited to drinking urine while fellating a man: We looked you up on Facebook. We’re … not surprised.
To VD: Will you marry me?
To the Long Island SDT princess wearing her finest soccer mom gear: No one cares how much pizza you drunk–eat at night. We just wanna know where the Capri Suns and orange slices are.
To the girl who reserved a precious booth in Weigle and then used it to take a nap: Is it okay if I go study in your apartment in Stouffer, you bitch?
To Street: Please get laid immediately and stop taking your sexual frustration out on all of us!
To the man who sits in the entrance of FroGro pretending to watch security videos: You will never stop me, you scarecrow!
To the nurse at Student Health who ran my STD tests: You don’t get asked out at work very much, do you?
To the chick who told me I couldn’t be proud of anything at Penn until I donated to the Penn Fund: What have you accomplished here beyond managing to singe yourself at Joseph Anthony?
To the preppiest, Vineyard Vines–sporting piece of ass at this school: You’re on the sailing team? No kidding? I still want you in and around my mouth.
To the metrosexual guy I banged last weekend: I didn’t really ask you to stop because your penis was too big — I was just bored.
To Wawa workers from 3–9 AM: Sorry. We’re actually really really really sorry.
To the freshman with the fertility symbol tattooed on her vag: You can’t get pregnant from anal.
To the two gingers and mini Justin Biebs in Pennchants: I need all three of you to report to my bed. Now.
To the senior Tabard–Theta contingent who have turned the 5th floor of Van Pelt into a never–ending Copa Wednesday: Maybe if you shut the fuck up, you wouldn’t have to spend so much time in the library.
To our HamCo neighbor who threw an egg at us because we were partying too loudly: USE YOUR WORDS.
To the clothes–shunning sophomore who scrawled “Fuck Me” on her stomach for Theos’ White Trash Party: You do know you’re Facebook friends with your dad, right?
To the lecherous second–year grad student in the Romance Languages department: The jig is up. Leave us alone. Not love, all undergrad women.
To the freshman living below me: Sorry about the vom on your windowsill. Hope you enjoyed the fried rice and Franzia coming up as much as I enjoyed them going down!
To the ex–girlfriend of the Kappa Sig I fucked: Please take him back! Don’t subject the rest of the world to how bad he is in bed.
To The Yellow Brick Road: We hope your house DJ suffers the same fate as the Wicked Witch of the West.
To my parents: Hey there! Yes, I’m an English major. No, there are no jobs. Yes, tuition is 55K a year. Sorry about that.
To my friend who shouted the N–word in public with 15 black people in earshot: People like you are the reason 4Loko got banned.
To the best brother ever: It was very generous of you to offer up your little sister for The Castle to share. Cruel Intentions is my favorite movie, too!
To the douchebag senior in A’s who couldn’t remember a one–syllable name: How are those blue balls feeling?
To the kid in our Cognitive Science class who has worn the color orange every day since the third grade: Orange you glad we noticed your desperate cry for attention?
To the girl in COGS 001 who looks and sounds like Lori Beth Denberg: Kenan and Kel may have like your annoying commentary and shrill, witch–like voice, but we do not. Please go away.
To the asshole who always pulls the fire alarm in The Radian: You won’t have a fire alarm to pull when you’re roasting in the fiery depths of hell.
To Penn’s Johnny Appleseed: Thank you for letting us shamelessly flirt with you every week outside the bookstore as we bond over your farm–fresh apples. Wanna see ours? Love, Your Honeycrisps.
To the anorexic girls at the gym: They should just build the “daddy issues” button right into the treadmill.
To my old Riepe roommate: Who do you live with now? And how does he react when he comes home to find you soberly urinating into his half–full bottle of lemon–lime Gatorade?
To Movember: Unless abstinence is a new–found cure for prostate cancer, you aren’t doing anything for the cause. You’re simply not getting any. Grab a razor, fellas.
To the pompous dicklick from high school who refuses to say hello to me at Penn: Just because you got a job at Goldman doesn’t mean you’re any less of a fuckhead.
To AEPi: Although it would be presumptuous to give our Gutter even the slightest bit of credit for contributing to your fall from ‘grace,’ it’s listserv emails like this that make us really glad your social capital is in the red — “…Just find and lynch whoever wrote that article. A classic stoning followed by a burning at the stake? On the deck at 4039?” xo Highbrow
To the soccer players in MATH170: If I give you the notes you missed, will you make out with me?
To the boy I slept with in TEP: It isn’t beer dick if it happens every time.
To the gunman at 40th and Locust: Chipotle > Qdoba, anyway!
To the girl who loves to spam the SDT listserv: Do you also BBM daddy when you’re majkhing ouyt wufth five guyts tonigtfjdt?!
To the guy on mock trial who asked me to give his cock–a–tri(al): I object.
To the SDT who threw up on me while straddling me: Stop texting me. Seriously.
To all houses that throw parties: Hide your soap. Hide your wipes.
To Street: Thanks for the circle jerk that was your Cultural Elite. It’s nice to know you like your friends.
To the boy I sleep with every six months: It’s time. Text me.
To the girl in my COMM class who raises her hand for every question but gets it wrong every time: We’re proud of you for trying.
To the guy who made me call him “The Situation” all night long: You’re the reason no one likes AEPi.
To the Beta boy who got the mumps: Karma’s a bitch.
To the two Frenchmen arguing over cheese in FroGro: ‘Nuff said.
To the southern boy in accounting: You have the most adorable smile ever, and somehow that excuses the fact that you went home for the opening of deer hunting season.
To the Physical World requirement: This isn’t the 16th century; you don’t matter at all. FUCK. YOU.
To the two Chancellor bros who initiated a foursome: We’re so glad we could help fulfill your pre–graduation dream of seeing each other naked!
To the Bowdoin Squirter: It might have been hot if you had warned me.
To the girl sitting cross–legged on the LOVE statue, smoking a cigarette and reading a book: Try harder.
To the buff Desi boy on the second floor of Pottruck: Toggle my balls and I’ll Pak–it–in–your–stan any time! Just please keep up the lifting and grunting.
To the guy I made out with on the dance floor at TEP during NSO: I was opening my mouth to tell you to stop touching me, not so you could insert your tongue.
To the TriDelt pancake Nazi: Remember, these are just pancakes. And it’s just for charity.
To the blackout BMOC contestant: It’s not that common, it doesn’t happen to every guy and it IS a big deal.
To the SAE junior who took my virginity during NSO: “Just the tip” my ass.
To Shoutouts: Thank you for being better than Christmas because you, unlike Santa, come twice a year.
To the men’s rowing team: Thanks for your v–cards!
To Campus Apartments: When we called the police to report a loiterer on our stoop, we were told he was employed by you to “watch the cement dry.” Your efficiency is truly breathtaking.
To the freshman girl who peed on my chair because she thought it was a toilet: Hope you don’t mind when I mistake your pillow case for a cum–rag.
To the Theos boys I caught making out with each other: Don’t worry, I’ll never tell.
To whoever chooses the “breaking” NYTimes News Alerts: You are about as selective as ChiO on bid night.
To Sphinx: Please remove us from your listserv. Love, Highbrow.
To the girl who sounds like a forty–year–old sexually frustrated secretary in HIST 70: You don’t need to answer every single rhetorical question with pretentious idiocies. You also should think of a way to dislodge that pole from the depths of your ass.
To the soccer mom in my art history class: The fact that you have to log onto OTHER people’s Facebook accounts to find new people to stalk suggests that you might need to spend some time looking for a real hobby.
To my Mexi–Jew roommate that I shared a wall with last year: Thanks for waiting until the end of the year to tell me you heard EVERYTHING I did. Lo siento, bro. You’re a mensch.
To the “Late Night” BBM Group: Your nostrils are getting tired!
To the uncircumcised kid who gave me strep: Thank god that’s the only disease I wound up with.
To the freshman girl who sucked up to me because she thought I was in Tabard: I’m not. But, thanks for the free drinks.
To the freak in PhiDelt: No I will not spit your splooge in your mouth. But I heard there are some willing boys next door!
To the executive editor of the DP, who is not culturally elite: Let’s be perfectly honest.
To Miss Kim: Everyone at Franklin Field misses you!
To the blonde baseball player with the stinky foreskin: Clean that shit out.
To the Theos sophomore who chain smokes menthol lights: Stop asking people what “scene” they’re in, you tool.
To Emma: Stop being so damn indecisive and just go out with me.
To the guy who tried to win a girl over by calling her indecisive in a Shoutout: I’m not sure why you thought that would work. And if it would have, you don’t want the girl. — Editors.
To all male freshmen: Asking me if I want to come back to Hill is not a good way to get me to go down on you. Love, all upperclassmen girls.
To a certain “Representative”: Stop outing gay guys. Just because you want the world to know that you love Britney Spears and wearing fuschia doesn’t mean everyone else does.
To the girl named Romeo: A rose by any other name might render this verse trite, O thou dost teach my torches to burn bright! Wherefore art thou still not mine?
To Pegasus: You are better than the Roof, the Deck and the Basement combined. Charles Plaza next Thursday?
To the Pike that tried to get me pregnant: It didn’t work; you owe me 20 bucks.
To number 17: You might be number 2 on the depth chart but you’re number 1 in my heart.
To Lowbrow: For the next Fascist Foodies can you do a picture of Robert Mugabe eating me out? <3 Tina. [Ed. note: We've been planning that for weeks you whore.]
To the 2010 grads that keep finding their way to the Blarney Stone: The thing about leaving your legacy is you have to leave
To the freshman with three front–page stories under your GA belt: No, I didn’t catch your story on JGL, or Bill Cosby, or Fall Fest. Even if it is the fifth time you’ve asked me today.
To FroGro: A $1 convenience fee on your booze is not too convenient for my alcoholism.
To our co-captains of the Deck: Teach me how to Green–Light.
To Dippin’ Dots: Let’s hang out more.
To Taglio: You are empty. Maybe it’s because you close so early that I can never get drunk and ironically suggest: “Hey friends, let’s go to Taglio!”
To a certain power couple: I have a reminder in my phone to make it official.
To Owls Brunch: Thank you for providing a forum for scenesters to buy bottles and act like the masturbatory ostentatious silly beans that they are.
To Jeggings: You are suffering from identity confusion.
To My Little Pony: That fateful day when I found you on my desk seems so far away. Let’s rekindle our love and go frolic sometime?
To the boy who has worn a three–piece suit to my law and society class since NSO: Stop taking yourself so seriously. No one else does.
To A. Acker: I saw you the other day, and your hair looked good. Keep up the good work.
To the red–headed princess of all things dance: Your voice makes my skin crawl.
To the Skulls Senior I hooked up with over the summer: Thanks for telling me “I’m good at sex” … because you’re not.
To Nature Valley cereal bars: You complete me.
To that elderly Asian woman who jogs through campus at the pace of a leisurely stroll: I can not count how many times I have resisted the urge to follow you down Locust with a megaphone and yell “PUSH IT! PUUUUUSH IIIIT!!!!!
To Greek Lady: Nice ceiling art, but we want Izzy & Zoe back.
To the MUN freshman who hit the deck too hard: We were just wondering if you got your life back?
To my thumbs: My phone doesn’t have autocorrect, so you guys are to blame for “Smoke’s” instead of “study.” Stop pressuring me.
To the CVS at 43rd and Locust: Thank you for being far enough from campus that I can secretly buy Plan B from you.
To my roommates who speak to each other in baby talk: It wasn’t cute when we were freshmen. Now that we’re seniors, we can hardly stand to be in a room with you when you are having a conversation. It’s time you ditch the diapers and speak like adults. Sincerely, all the “lil-guy” haters.
To DJ Industrial Average: Your tweets are as offensive as your beats. Please go back to the psychotic finance–centric planet from whence you came.
To the alumni who are still reading this: Sorry, nothing in your adult lives will ever compare to Shoutouts.
To da bebeh: Damn. You went through puberty quick! Your boobs are up to your chin.
To people who are mayors on FourSquare: Your fake propriety means nothing IRL.
To a certain Beige senior house: Mask & Wig is a more functional group of women than you are.
To N. Eisenberg: Too cool for school. Good luck, man.
To the guys who break-dance on the compass: Just how bad are your midterm scores?
To the Seth Rogan lookalike who I slept with for help on my statistics test: I still got a B, you creep! Daddy’s gonna be so mad!
To my beloved, beautiful roommate: How many empty boxes of Monistat am I gonna find around our bathroom before you fix … that?
To my mailman: “Cat Fancy” hasn’t come in three weeks and I just renewed my membership. I’m on to you …
To my roommate who is still in denial about being a werewolf: Just a phase my ass!! There’s another full moon in 3 weeks. I will lock you in the bathroom if you don’t go to CAPS.