LowbrowApril 21, 2011 at 4:00 pm

Shoutouts Spring 2011

Okay, scout. You’re about to dive in to the greatest batch of shoutouts of your life. However, with great greatness comes great responsibility. Remember, as you immerse yourself in slutty roommate jokes, to breathe deep. Pace yourself. There’s only so many jabs at JAPs you can take. And with that, good luck and God’s speed.

To the pre–frosh who gave me head in a frat party bathroom: Did you really think I was “a student intern in the admissions office”?

To the freshman who told me mid–hook up that he couldn’t continue because he was bisexual: I think that means you’ve chosen teams.

To the Slut Hut: Your name is misleading.

To the guy who has an easy bake oven in his room: When I don’t respond it means I don’t want to hang out with you. Especially when cupcakes are involved.

To my roommate who only likes depressing movies: Please stop making every girl who comes to our apartment leave in tears.

To the former DP ed: You have a small dik. Go copy edit that.

To the senior in my sorority who I walked in on having sex in Addams: For an architecture major doin’ it with the Quaker, one would think you two would be a little more creative than missionary.

To the sophomore in TEP who just dropped his first EP: I’ve dropped shits that smelled better than that.

To my roommate: I’m glad you finally decided to get a waterproof bed spread… it only took wetting yourself over 35 times to get one.

To the senior in Phi Delt who stalked me for a week: No, I will not go down on your crooked dick.

To the junior who broke my vagina: Thanks to you I am the gossip of all the Student Health gynos.

To the junior class president: Man, aren’t you lucky that your Hey Day fiasco happened after Senior Class Board elections.

To my acting professor: No, I do not want to explode from my sexual place.

To S4TPF: STFU.

To the girl who unzips her pants for naptime in class: Underwear, panties, anything. PLEASE.

To campus’ favorite mermaid: Can’t wait to see a picture of you next to Charlie Sheen.

To David, I mean Logan: Thanks for proving to us that looks don’t matter. Money does.

To my boyfriend: Why does my Pandora station know me better than you do?

To the horny Brit who loves vaginas: You taught us one thing about girls: “If there’s grass on their wicket, let’s play cricket.”

To the two Theos bros we saw at the Rave on a Monday at 10:30 p.m.: We won’t say the name of the movie one time… but we saw u smile… we didn’t think we’d run into you there either but never say never…

To the blonde kid with the mohawk: I asked you for your glow bracelet and you gave me coke instead. Thanks!

To Feb Club: We remember our first drink too! Love, Omega.

To the BE professor that I TA for: I’m sorry that I kicked you, but when you touched my leg it triggered my knee reflex.

To hipsters: It’s called the walk; get off your fucking bike.

To the senior class boards: We couldn’t even get drunk enough to ignore how much you fucked up Feb Club. We’re moving to hard drugs for senior week.

To TriDelt: Shoutouts are due before War of the Roses, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you looked slutty.

To the self–proclaimed Theta “foodie”: Just because you take pictures of your food doesn’t mean we believe you ate it.

To my sorority sister: You’re a lot more fun now that you’re slutty and do lots of blow.

To the last sisters of Phi Sig: Does it hurt that even with their group of rejects, ZTA still has a better pledge class than you ever did?

To the people that think Mask & Wig is funny: We’re on to you…

To the majority of flingers at Penn: Who knew everyone was such great friends with Molly?

To the garden gnome I always see walking the Beta puppy: You are not worthy of a puppy that adorable!

To everyone who just got a Twitter: Go back to Xanga.

To the guy taking a crap at the top of the bleachers during the Fling concert: Dude, how did you wipe your ass?

To my fake ID: I have given my whole identity to you! Why do you insist on playing these treacherous games with my heart every time we go to Smoke’s?

To the guy who had to ask what I meant when I said “stop”: “No” doesn’t mean “yes,” and “yes” doesn’t mean anal.

To the AXO in the lax pinnie: I would say fat before frat.

To the girls living in the Tridelt chapter house: The sweet fellatio orchestra you all conduct every night reminds me why I wish I weren’t a gay man… and why I don’t have herpes.

To the Comm professor who is too high to function: This isn’t Oberlin. Handle your shit.

To the fine employees of Beijing: I sincerely apologize for leaving my dinner and first 30 minutes of power hour on your bathroom wall and floor.

To the blond conductor from the Penn Band: I have always loved you. I am willing to discuss marriage as long as you bring the same enthusiasm to the bedroom.

To the guy who disappeared from two of my classes two months ago only to show up last week as if nothing had happened: Did Edward Cullen change you too?

To the girl with the heavenly voice that sings every time she does laundry on the second floor of Harnwell: Your voice always Cheers me up and puts a Bounce in my step when I’m having a Downy day.

To Professor Thomas Childers: You are the fucking man and will be sorely missed.

To the St. A’s senior who got his teeth lengthened with dental caps and routinely gets teeth whitening treatments and spray–on tans: Were you trying to alter your physical appearance to hide your alleged drug habit or your horrible personality?

To my closeted roommate: Sometimes you purr while studying, but it’s not convincing anyone that you want pussy.

To the guy who vomited on me at Zete after trying to shove his tongue down my throat: I hold no grudge that some Zete d–bag in a big fur kicked us out.  I do mind that you smeared your vomit on my face when you continued your attempted make-out.

To the man friend of an ex–Street photog: Your nasal voice, ambitiously starched collars and excruciating narcissism don’t bother me as much as your constant flirtation with Childers. Back off! That Southern Gentleman’s mine.

To the guy we share a wall with who only listens to Bright Eyes: Are you sure this is your happy music?

To the Pi Kapp guy who uses emoticons: I can never take you seriously again.

To the cute boy I hooked up with during Fling: I hooked up with you because you were so respectful toward me on the dance floor. Every frat boy should learn from you. Thanks and keep it up. [Ed note: Come to Smoke’s tonight because Street has a crush on you.]

To the Tabard girl in my history class: We wanted to stereotype you, but you’re actually quite nice.

To Fling Safe: I certainly felt safe with you passed out on my bed for an hour.

To the Slovakian who lives at 34th: Thor the thunder god!!!

To the kid who downed half our vodka and refused to pay for it: How much did that alcohol–induced hospital trip cost you?

To the senior in Owls: I peed on your baby blue Vespa. Next time you say no to giving me a ride home, I’ll clean your pretentious glasses with my ass cheeks.

To “puke on the bar guy”: Maybe you should stop coming up to us and saying “Hey remember me! I puked on the bar!”

To the soggy corn flakes in Hill: Are you for cereal?

To the hot Southern rower in my Sleep class: Meet me under the button and show me what you’ve really learned. [Ed Note: If anyone sees two people napping under the button, tip us.]

To the Theos of Chancellor: Paying locals to loudly construct a rainproof tent at 9 a.m. on the Saturday of fling? Die.

To Penn students: #Thisjokeisold.

To the Lax team: Your puppy is both cuter and smarter than all of you combined.

To the girl who asked me to make out on the floor of the Fling Concert: Even though I have a girlfriend, I would have considered it had your face not been so mangled.

To Flo Rida: I wish you had brought your own dancers. Didn’t you know Penn girls were beat?

To the tiny freshman trying to steal my boyfriend: If he tried to do you doggy style you’d fly like a jumbo jet and get a concussion in three seconds flat.

To the yogurt–lover in Marketing: You’re the perfect combination of beauty & brains. I know this because I stalked you on Facebook.

To the sophomore gymnasts: It’s hard to imagine you’re going to be someone’s mother one day.

To the guy who thought he overdosed on gummy vitamins: Not sure if that’s more embarrassing than eating a head of lettuce as drunk food.

To me: I love myself, this girl that I am. [Ed note: This is NOT FWord.]

To the owners of the Braves hat, Falcons Vick jersey, Hawks t–shirt and Georgia Tech tumbler that I’ve collected over the past four years: At least my drunk kleptomania has focus.

To Highbrow: Masturbating should be done indoors, not in “Cultural Elite.”

To Sphinx: For the oldest senior society on campus, you sure look like the love child of Oracle and Onyx.

To the NEC: Do more? Do less? Do… anything?

To the Haus of Gaga: No amount of theatricality can mask the fact that you’re all irritating wannabes.

To the Theta girl that pissed my bed while I was in it: Not my version of a wet dream.

To the guy in the locker room at Pottruck: I caught you peeing in the shower, but you caught me looking at your penis. We’re even.

To the sloot who lives across the hall: Stop being such a sloot, sloot.

To my roommate: The mouse in our room is better than you are… and he shits on my floor.

To the SOCI–137 TA who talks till 11:55 and wore a Bacardi jersey to class that one time: Give a shit.

To the obnoxious guy in my business ethics class who believes starving children in Africa should die off as a part of natural selection: I actually Kant stand you.

To my nose (and my boyfriend): Why do I have to blow you for sooo long before anything comes out? I seriously can’t breathe.

To the basketball player who sweat through my comforter, sheets and mattress pad: You owe me $4 in quarters.

To the Lithuanian swingdancer: Are you Basshunter?

To the RA that keeps putting free Magnum condoms outside her door: No guy on the floor can fill them out.

To my lin twin: You know your heavy breathing deters most people from being in your presence.

To the JAPrinces of Penn: This is the only place where being short, bald and metrosexual is cool, so enjoy it while it lasts.

To the guy who thought I was a virgin: I actually had my period but just chose not to correct you. Sorry about the sheets.

To the Pi Kapp boy who’s boning playlist includes three Disney songs: Not cute.

To Houston Market: Ever realize that regular milk never sells out? Buy more effing chocolate milk.

To the person who puts pumpkins in dryers and then pees in them: Huh?

To the boy who put me in his phone as “raincheck” after I wouldn’t have sex with him: We are not having sex. Ever. Stop glaring at me on Locust Walk.

To the boy who asked me if he could give me gonorrhea on the dance floor: That is not a very effective pick up line. Just sayin’.

To the M–Club: I moustache you a question. It’s rather blunt, so I’ll shave it for later.

To Penn a cappella groups: “Dischord?” “Off the Beat?” We’re beginning to think you guys are just naming groups after your own inability to make music.

To the guy who told me he was like a Long Island iced tea because he’s “trashy and gross but gets the job done quick”: Really?

To the SDT girl who does a flawless impression of a hatching dinosaur: I have a thing for dinosaurs. Rawr.

To Theta’s srat gear: You’re lacking, unless your black and gold AmExes count.

To AEPi: Sorry I made out with all of you. You should probably get tested for Herpes.

To the freshman football player in Phi Delt who stood me up at the champagne and shackles party: I’m still DTF. Love, the senior who drank two forties and a bottle of champagne by herself.

To people who walk slowly or who suddenly change their walking speed or direction: I’m not sorry for bumping into you and I wish I had pushed harder.

To the Rodin desk woman: How are you always so damn happy?

To the girl in psych who spends the whole class detailing her sexual exploits to the girl next to her: If you don’t know how to whisper, at least speak up.

To the girl in Tabard who’s into anal: Thanks for not eating. Makes it less gross.

To the poorly proportioned persona with a penchant for perturbation: Your constant histrionics somehow drive us crazier than you already are.

To the senior who did a walk of shame from Hill: I won’t tell your fiancee!

To our would–be roommate who sublet to a yogi from Craigslist: The band of aging hippies that hotboxes our house would like to know if it’s okay to wash their clothes in the bathtub.

To ASB: I’m still itching.

To this entire overrated, elitist campus: Fuck you and all your pretentious horseshit. You think you’re masters of the universe, don’t you?  Well you can all SUCK! MY! DICK!… Please?  I’m actually really lonely and horny, I haven’t had anything that could possibly be construed as “sex” in over a year. I miss boobies.

To the cute South African senior in Wharton: I’d love to blow your vuvuzela.

To the girl who came to our house party, got drunk, cut her finger and left blood all over our walls: Eat before you drink, please.

To the multitudes of TEP boys that thought last semester’s “beer dick” shoutout was for them: I guess I now know who NOT to have sex with.

To the tall guy who works in the media lab: I want to put my jump drive inside your USB port.

To the Whartonite who told me she “doesn’t have friends, only connections”: All I heard is that you don’t have friends…

To my roommate who tried to have sex in the shower: If she says “ow” instead of “oh,” you’re probably doing it wrong.

To the guy who got mono “from a doorknob”: YEAH RIGHT.

To the girl whose ass I grazed while reaching for my beaker: I don’t need a graduated cylinder to measure our chemistry.

To the guy I met over blow: No, I didn’t intentionally drop that condom as I left your door… but if you and your girlfriend ever break up give me a call!

To the ROTC men of Penn: I’m ready to service the troops at home.

Dear Scientifically Blonde: Your articles are a 4 but your looks are a 10.

To the girl at Smoke’s bragging about hooking up with, like, the Prince of Copenhagen: There is no, like, Prince of Copenhagen.

To the ginge: My toes miss your mouth.

To the Penn Basketball team: If you passed the ball as well as you pass along diseases maybe you’d have an above .500 record.

To the tutor who knows as well as I do that I don’t need help in math: I know you’re not an English major, but do I really have to spell it out for you? D–O M–E
N–O–W.

To the bitch drinking Brian’s orange juice: He wants it back.

To the annoying girl in my astronomy class: Lectures don’t have a participation grade. Put your hand down and stop asking about your horoscope.

To my roommate that pissed on my bed at 5 a.m.: I forgive you… mostly because you’ve been washing your hair with a mix of Head and Shoulders and my semen for about two weeks now.

To the staff guy in Houston that I had a dirty dream about: You have all the Philly swag that us white suburban girls just cant get enough of.

To the random girl who asked me on Spruce if her boobs were uneven: Yes.

To the football player with the batman backpack: How old are we?

To the Club Volleyball Team: Stop wearing your spandex around campus. Sincerely, the Varsity Volleyball Team.

To the girl who lost her license at Blarney before spring break: Sorry. I can’t wait to be 21 in July.

To the baseball player who likes untrimmed infields: You probably should have had a Rabbi trim something else down there, too.

To the Beta boy who likes fingers in his butt hole: Last time I checked, it’s not socially acceptable to pee on girls in showers.

To the UTB editor I blew and who now won’t accept my friend request: I don’t take back calling your posts “hit–or–miss.”

To Charles: Sorry for destroying your plaza and stealing everything from it. Let’s still be friends? Yours, BYOBFF.

To the person who submitted 15+ mediocre Shoutouts about athletes: Just shut up and fuck one of them already.

To all the non–athletes here at Penn: Sucks you can’t use the excuse of being a varsity athlete when you wear sweatpants to class.

To my gay friend: I love you so much. Though I sometimes get really scared when I think of the pet man you have chained up in your apartment…

To the PhiDi employee who took my wad of singles when I was too high to count them: Thanks for giving me change and for chasing me down Walnut when I forgot to grab my food.

To the girl who got her head stepped on by the camel at Zete: HOLY SHIT! ARE YOU OKAY!? WHY DID YOU WALK AWAY SO QUICKLY?

To Pakistanis: You sure deleted those statuses fast after you lost. Love, Indians.

To SK: I just donated my ugly old sorority shirts to charity. I wonder what the policy is on homeless people wearing letters.

To the staff and patients of HUP: Next year, I’m finally moving out of the quad. Hope you enjoyed the two years of free strip shows!

To the sassy Asian that sits next to me in writing seminar: Not ok, sassy Asian. Not ok.

To our Radian neighbors: We will have them take down your sex swing if it’s the last thing we do. Love, your slightly jealous neighbors.

To second semester senior year: Where are my life goals and what have you done with them?

To the meowing homeless man sitting next to me in Van Pelt: You definitely do not have a PennCard.

To the guy who fucked in our hall’s shower: I can’t believe you didn’t wear shoes.

To people who say “do more”: Speak less.

To the meowing homeless man sitting next to me in Van Pelt: You definitely do not have a PennCard.

To the guy who walked out of a Van Pelt bathroom with a full on doppkit: You are not Tom Hanks. This is not your Terminal. And brushing your teeth should not take 15 minutes.

To the girl who farted in the Radian elevator: I’m sorry I LOLed, but the fact that you were wearing red and yellow AND it smelled like McDonald’s was lol worthy.

To the safety–green construction–worker–jacket wearing guide dog lookalike in CINE–103: Stop coming to class late!

To the man next to me on the elliptical who tried to chat me up: No. You’re on an elliptical.

To the boy who drunkenly stole a Marathon grill umbrella, set it up in his room and invited me over for a tropical adventure at 2 a.m.: You are amazing. Rock on.

To my hallmate who accidentally sent me a text intended for her boyfriend: No, I will not spank you if you break your promise to only wear cute thongs this weekend.

(Get called out in a particularly cruel Shoutout? Learn how to recover here)

 
3 People have left comments on this post


By bcm on April 21, 2011 at 4:00 pm

To the person who made the bad Kant pun,
that’s Malthus’ philosophy, not Kant.

By White Boy on April 21, 2011 at 4:00 pm

To all the Indian girls on campus: I love you, you bring some much need beauty and variety to this campus.

By Inevitably errant on April 21, 2011 at 4:00 pm

Out of sans ed, dis(m)al (sans ed) / ironic paradox?

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