kvetch: v.1 (Yiddish) to complain
Who do I have to blow to get my kvetch chosen?
To the girl in my psychology class: Typing with your pinky finger extended, does not make your typing “fancy.”
To the guy in my POLI 432 class who came dangerously close to dislocating his
shoulder in trying to get the professor to call on him: That’s why he didn’t.
Wait, Obama’s not the Messiah?
To the boy in JOMC 484: Screw graphic design. You’re the most visually appealing thing in this class.
To the construction
workers at the pharmacy school: Seriously, it took about one year to build the Empire State Building. It’s taken you TWO to fix our front yard?
To the kid who peed in the Ehringhaus elevator: We liked it better when you snuck into our suite to use the urinal.
To the girl who responded to the honors frat listserv asking, “So since it’s a fraternity, it’s only for guys?”: You obviously should be removed from the honors list.
To the individual that locks up a shopping cart in front of Hinton James: You are a man amongst boys.
Dear UNC fraternities: Thanks for helping my liver commit suicide.
To my ex, who would rather play Farmville than make out: I hope your crops wither.
Ehringhaus: There is something truly wrong with you when I see more bugs flying around in the basement than I do outside.
Blow jobs? F-bomb? Thats right DTH, talk dirty to me.
“Reda, who has killed more than 80 deer, says he has a love for animals” — Really DTH?
UNC Marching Band: Playing the Rocky theme song, a classic underdog song, while a lower ranked team is attempting to upset us at home is not
appropriate.
To all female Facebookers: Just because you get “professional” pictures taken at Walmart does not make you a “professional” model.
Really, Rams Head Recreation Center worker? You think it’s okay to change the music from classic rock to “Fireflies,” and then leave? I’m trying to work out here.
To all campus computers: What do you mean you’re loading my personal settings? I don’t HAVE any personal settings.
Dear John Edwards: I think you might be the father of my child.
To the high school girl I danced with at the 80s dance at Cat’s Cradle: Don’t call your dad. I’ll give you a ride home.
Send your one-to-two sentence entries to dthedit@gmail.com, subject line ‘kvetch.’
