To the girl who kept insisting “she never does this” as she went down on me: You didn't have to keep stopping and telling me. Your method said more than enough.
To all the women who feel left out of Movember: Remember, moustaches can tickle both sets of lips.
To the “dirtiest” house on campus: Please play Miley Cyrus louder so we won’t hear you having sex through the walls.
To the guy who donated the urinals in Van Pelt: Congrats on being the person I most often think of while holding my cock.
To the girls who nickname themselves, their house and everything around them: It’s not j’adorable, frankly it’s j’annoying as fuck. Jugs and jisses.
To SFCU: STFU.
To the kid who sings in the shower: I don’t wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
To the senior with platinum hair and orange skin: Room Raiders is no longer casting.
To my film professor: After you come inside my liminal space, can I examine you ontologically?
To my antisocial roommate: A piss for a piss. I will pee on you one day, I promise.
To the matador who fell asleep during a Halloween blow job: Next time I’ll just get the Rocky Mountain oysters — at least they come au jus.
To the cow that stole my matador pants: I need them for next weekend when I take down another one.
To our fave Features edz: Fondle my dongle?
To Marathon: It takes the average woman 8 beatings before she leaves an abusive partner. Why haven’t we learned after 4 years?
To Saxbys: Why you gotta put doody in yo’ coffee?
To the garden gnome in Theta: Everyone knows you didn’t actually have swine flu. It’s called gonorrhea.
To the blonde who quenches her thirst with vodka: Way to show off by peeing in front of the DIALYSIS clinic.
To Kappa Sig: What’s the running rate to get TriDelts and Thetas to attend your parties? Sincerely, Phi Psi
To the asshat who thought abusing a recorder constituted a Halloween costume: We hope the actual flute player from the 4th floor impales you with the real thing.
To anyone who met me on Halloween: I’m sorry.
To the girl in my finance class who told me to wear less perfume: Put a bag over your head or move seats.
To celiacs: You be ‘rexic. Stop your lies.
To the tramp stamped blonde who was passed out on my roommate’s bed: FYI, two boys were having wild sex inches from your face. Seriously, we tried to get as close to your face as we could without waking you up.
To the Sig Ep guys who walked into my open room and offered me a shot, because they "used to live here": Thanks.
To the unfortunate girl at the black light party on 40th: Sorry, I didn’t know cum shows up on skin.
To the guy from Cali who got me to smoke weed for the first time: Even high I wouldn’t have sex with you. And you might want to get that weepy penis looked into.
To the English Theos sophomore: You make Oscar Wilde look like the Terminator.
To Harrison: Elevators do two things. They move up. They move down. Please learn.
To the DZine model who stole my BDG hoodie in exchange for “putting out”: Find a dude to get you a Rodeo Drive boob job and get back to me.
To McDonald's: No, I don’t want a fucking Filet-O-Fish at 3 in the morning. I want some goddamn Chicken Selects.
To the sophomore that lives on Beige: Who knew a red-headed slut wasn’t just a drink? And by the way, black latex cut-outs accentuate your manly build.
To Pottruck: Fuck that automatic door.
To the pigs of 8th floor Sansom West: 10-foot piles of garbage are only acceptable when PEG puts them next to the Button.
To the guapa chica in my Spanish class: I’m sick of you sitting next to your horse-faced boyfriend in class. You should put him out to pasture and ride this cowboy instead.
To the Wharton girl who blew me: At least participation is 25% of the grade.
To the Pi Kapp who models for The Walk: If your moves in the bedroom were as smooth as your moves down the catwalk, we’d hook up with you more than once.
To the girl whose name I don’t know: Maybe you should think about what “type of girl” you are before you get completely naked in a stranger’s bed. From, The guy who still doesn’t want to know your name
To the not-so-Gentlemen of 4000 Pine: We know you can all afford haircuts and shaves — stop trying to actually look like owls.
To the house of sorority sophomores who were barn animals for Halloween: Ladies, you’re not too cool to dress up.
To the British sisters: Balls are not meant to be blue.
To the junior in TriDelt with stanky poos: Next time warn us we’re taking a journey through a five-day fish market.
To Cream and Sugar: How much for an eight ball?
To my Cold War history TA: Ich liebe dich.
To the Theta sophomore who speaks with a British accent: We all know you’re from Chicago.
To the Persian sophomore in Theta: Why do I only Far-si you? Come closer.
To the twins: Shit, you’re back. Looks like I am going to be really dirty again this year. From, Your toilet
To the small-nippled Oz senior with a penchant for 90210 re-runs: How does it feel to have wasted the best four years of your life more whipped than Michael Vick’s lead mutt?
To a certain foreign social chair: We know you’re not from America, but they do speak English in England, don’t they? Or maybe you just had too much champaign at Palmer Socail to spell anything right. X.
To Lois at Einstein: You my girl.
To my Mac-addict friend who complains that his boyfriend focuses more on his BlackBerry than on him: Isn’t that the Apple calling the BlackBerry "fruit?"
To the horn-dog Asian who lives in the Nipple: Why do you wears Crocs with slutty short dresses when you go to frat parties?
To my roommate: Please stop spitting off the top bunk when you come in shitfaced. It’s not the Golden Gate Bridge. From, Bottom Bunk
To the plug and socket from Dynamic Duos: Judging by how sloppily you hit on girls, maybe you two should just keep sticking it to each other.
To the cute guy in the kosher wannabe-frat-house on Beige: Stop being so religious, and I'll let you put your meat in my milk.
To ZBT: Sorry your “rave” got crashed, but what genius decided to pick a fight with the wrestlers?
To the girl with trashy highlights in my Jane Austen class: Learn to blow your nose. Judging by the way you sit with your legs wide open, I’m sure you’re good at blowing other things.
To the Castle super senior on Pine Street: Instead of blasting Akon 24/7, why don’t you spend your time more productively, like fist-pumping or buying more scarves.
To the kid who nicknamed his dick “Waldo” because it’s hard to find: Fail.
To Penn: Sorry it took so long, but we’ll get the locks on SDT's pantries by the end of the week. Love, OFSA
To TEP: Get out of our kitchen. You’re munching on all our food. Love, SDT
To the British linebacker in Theta: Stop body-slamming me.
To the guy who screamed my Twitter name while we were having sex: TWEET.
To the men of Movember: I moustache you a question.
To Owls: I am totes jealous of the people who live in the apartments behind your house; they get to live out my lifelong dream of residing above a gay night club.
To Mr. Bui: I would do naughty, naughty things for your special sauce.
To the Ann Taylor on Walnut: I throw stale cookies and donuts from the dining halls at your windows.
To the only other person who’s had sex under the Button, on the Button, through a hole in the Button, on top of the Love sculpture, in the Blarney bathroom, at the top of 38th Street bridge, and on the 8th floor of Huntsman: What a fucking year. Happy Anniversary, baby!
To the guy jacking off under his MacBook in Van Pelt: Was it the video of your professor lecturing or the grainy porn that did it for you?
To the tall, beautiful, muscular male who dressed up as Serena Williams for Halloween: Why are you gay? Love, A bevy of adoring ladies
To the DP photographer who continually puts me in the paper: My boyfriend thinks we’re screwing. I wish.
To the freshman wearing the red striped polo in his PennCard photo whose last name rhymes with "Ozenberg": I found your ID, but you’re not on Facebook. It’s on my fridge.
To the bed-wetting bandit of Sigma Chi: Your stick may be long on the lax field, but in the bedroom? ‘Tis not.
To the “eco-friendly” Theta: I’m pretty sure that your designer leather bags and coke habit aren’t doing much to help the environment.
To the SAE senior pretending to be “dying of leukemia” to get pity sex from girls: YOU ARE A HORRIBLE PERSON.
To 34th Street: Shoutouts are like Christmas, Hanukkah and my birthday all rolled into one. Thanks (this one is not really to go in, it’s just my way of saying thanks)!
To the TriDelt/Phi Delt couple: You’re one broken condom away from a baby who walk of shames its way out of you and forgets to call you back.
To Penn’s most entitled: Fucking a dog so you can phi-nally be in a frat doesn’t make you cool. The Eagles may be willing to accept animal abusers, but no girl here wants to be sloppy seconds to a chocolate lab.
To the Engineering sophomore who was Lady Gaga for Halloween: We could read your poker face if you used some Proactiv.
To the man in the big red truck: Enough coffee chit-chat. Can we just espresso this and make some HubBub in your truck?
To the Phillies Phaithphul Phans: I hope you phind time in the ophph season to learn to spell.
To Professors Adrian Raine, Matt Blaze, Joe Powers and Peter Storm: Your awesome names have led us to construct elaborate identities as crime-fighting caped crusaders for you. Please don’t crush our dreams. The world must never know. From, The good people of Metropolis
To Dicknormous: False advertising. <3 the Cocktagon
To the half-naked girl walk-of-shaming at 11 a.m. on Thursday morning: They may have turned heads at Copa, but look both ways before you cross Spruce — your tits don’t stop traffic.
To the bid who wore only duct tape over her nips at the Underpants Party: I’m assuming you’re wearing a shirt now. Thank the Lord.
To the Beta boy who tried to hook up with me: You have a penis. I have a penis. It’s called being gay.
To my awkwardly tall yet adorable musical director: I like your massive feet.
To our potential friend with the open profile: Why did you reject our friend request on Facebook? We would have “liked” your crazy girlfriend’s daily video posts.
To the girl who left me an anonymous love note last year outside of my room on the 5th floor of Hill: I felt great happiness upon receiving it, and great sadness when I never found out who you are. Reveal yourself to me, and I will take you on a date.
To over-eager automatic toilets: Up *yours*.
To Chipotle burritos: You are so large and satiating. Every time I finish, I feel pregnant with your burrito child.
To the bike cop who told me he hoped I pulled out when he found me having sex under the Button at 2 a.m. on a Thursday: Would it have killed you to let me finish?
To the girl who asked me if I’d still respect her after we had sex: Who actually says no to that question?
To Romeo: I saw you blushing during our own private balcony scene. Thou canst have much satisfaction tonight. You should probably get on that before I get on Mercutio. From, Juliet
To the ginger from A’s who was nearly left at Woodser: Passing out in a random trailer sans clothing is not a good idea. Telling the owner of that trailer “you have five minutes to get out of my fucking house” before trying to punch him in the balls is a quick way to get yourself shot. You may not remember, but the video always will.
To the Liberty Meal Plan: I have never felt so suppressed.
To the girl(s) on my floor with irritable bowel syndrome: I feel bad you can never reach the toilet on time. But, get your shit together. Literally.
To the sophomore rower in 208: Your mom is not here. Untuck your fucking shirt.
To the sophomore Abercrombie Kids model: You’re not that hot, you have a lazy eye and your nickname was fetus.
To Big-Tits-Moustache: The forces of good and evil are not in balance. You ugly.
To the man next to me at Van Pelt who thinks his headphones are plugged in: They aren’t. And you are both too old and too male to be listening to "Party in the USA."
To the Beta bros: Nice job at the hot dog eating contest. Did you remember to cup the balls while you were sucking down those wieners?
To the TriDelt who shat her pants: I’d still hit that.
To my friend in FNAR 538: You are not a Real Housewife. So writing a coffee table book about your freshman experience does not make you profound or self-aware, but rather unacceptably pretentious.
To my roommate: When I walked into my room and saw a squirrel sitting in your chair, I decided that this was a definite upgrade. At least the shit he leaves around the room is small and out of the way.
To the club curling team: I’d like to get down and rock your button in the house.
To the 34th Street Editors: If you don’t put the curling Shoutout in, it proves your lack of intelligence and knowledge of general curling terms. Pick up your remote and watch the 2010 Olympics in February.
To Theos: I’m here to recruit you! From, Harvey Milk
To the kid who dresses like he’s from the turn of the century: Nylon didn’t exist then. Get a new murse.
To the Mayer resident who keeps his sex-doll in the window: I’m sorry you and your girlfriend are going through a rough patch.
To Frank (the newish bartender at Smoke's): You are the shizzle! Tip him extra dolla billz!
To the critical writing department: Says: The writing seminar can suck my cock. Does: Expresses the writer’s emotion towards a topic using emphatic and to-the-point language. Do you need that double-spaced?
To Da Behbeh: You look like a fetus. Get in my bellleeehhhhh.
To the gentlemen of TEP: Next time you might want to be a little careful where you place your letters. Everything else in your fraternity is high, maybe they should be too.
To the kid who thinks he’s Emeril Lagasse with his dick: “BAM” just doesn’t work when you’re about to come.
To the ex-football player with the big butt: Next time, can you at least ask me before you jizz all over my chest?
To Greenpeace: Just because I won’t give my credit card information to a random stranger doesn’t mean that I’m a bad person.
To 4020: Nothing will ever be better than birthday sex.
To the boy in my Intro to Islam art history class who insists on wearing flip flops and kicking them off every class: If you ever, EVER brush up against me with those gnarly feet of yours again you won’t need those flip flops. Because you won’t have feet.
To the Philomethean Society: You should contact the Guinness Book of World Records. I’m pretty sure you have the biggest collection of self-absorbed pricks in the entire world.
To the waaaaay pregnant engineer that’s always in the wood shop: You know you’re not just fat, right?
To the SDT girl who gave me an STD: I am also getting checked for dyslexia.
To the guy in front of me in line at Cosi: You should probably change the name of the person you were texting in your phone. I don’t think she would like being called “Random Vag from Tuesday.”
To the girls in the Houston salad line that request a quarter of a ladle of salad dressing: We know you binge drink on weekends. Anorexia fail.
To the pre-med in my Spanish class: The loudness of your incoherent interruptions does not make up for your lack of Spanish skills or negligible body mass.
To the prude whore: Teeth hurt.
To the sorority soph whose threats of blacklisting got her sent to OFSA: Oops. Love, Your senior friends
To the OMG-super-cool hipster chick that works at Green Line: The jig is up. We all know you’re a TriDelt at heart.
To bec1246: Of 58 shoutouts submissions, zero made it in. Congrats. From, Lowbrow
To the freshman who trades sex for weed: Even Moses would get lost in that vag.
To the Vagina Monologues: Publicity is fun, but put us in the show before we get all CUNT on your twats. {(())}
To jiggly boobs girl in my Spanish class: Luckily the professor’s gay, because he’s the only one who isn’t distracted by your jiggly boobs.
To the beautiful boy in my HSOC class: Even though you spelled potatoe with an "E", I still think you’re hot(e).
To people from "the City": I’m from Miami, bitch!
To the Midwestern socialite fraternitute: How many times are you willing to swallow to get a bid?
To the man and/or dog who took a dump outside of the DP: This is your Shoutout. Live it. Love it.
To the girl who was worried her nose job would inhibit her coke intake: Your new nose sucks, but not as much as your personality.
To the Beta who thought Led Zeppelin would put me in the mood: Even head-banging won’t let me forget how small you are.
