First and foremost, we picked you as pledge class president because you seemed like the biggest bitch of the bunch and thought that maybe, by some miracle of God, a little responsibility might grow those shriveled little apricots you call testicles into those of a respectable human being. Don’t feel special. You’ve been a shitty leader of a shitty pledge class so far, and we couldn’t be more disappointed. You think you’re ready after six weeks of pledging? You’ve barely even begun, shitstick, and until initiation day, if it ever comes, you will deserve about as much respect as a used tampon.
You’ve got to give respect to get it, and every time you walk into my house and don’t follow the guidelines we’ve given, you might as well just go up to my room, drop trou, and lay a steamy surprise on my pillow. If you can barely remember my major and my big brother’s name, then I will conveniently forget to treat you like a human being.
I’d like to honestly apologize to you for the milk chugging incident. Four whole pledges, drinking lukewarm milk. Dear Lord, how ever did you survive? Listen kid, in my day it was the whole pledge class, and the milk was six months old, scalding hot, and with the consistency of cottage cheese mixed with earwax. We also had to run a 5k immediately after guzzling down the last oozy bit of dairy disgust. But you’re right, it’s so tough to be you.
Why would I drink such a disgusting cocktail of gastrointestinal torture? Because, unlike you self-righteous fucks, joining this house meant that much to me. Pledging isn’t just a fun little after school activity where you can put in a little effort and expect the great rewards we offer. Pledging is your job, and I speak for everyone when I say you’re doing pretty goddamn terribly.
You say you’re willing to jog and wall sit for however many hours we require of you; my friend, you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life. If you want to take it upon yourself to carry the weight of your thus far worthless pledge class, then I am in no position to stop you. You’ve openly invited the living hell that will consume you in the weeks to come, and I can’t even find it in my heart to feel sorry for you.
Prepare for the hardest few weeks of your life, little PCP. While you sit now lower than whale shit at the bottom of the ocean, I eagerly await the chance to (metaphorically…most likely) tear you the new gaping asshole that you clearly wish for so badly.
Also, why the fuck are you writing us a letter? Either embrace the world of technology and send me an email from your shitty little hotmail account, or gather up those little apricots and speak to me face to face like a man. Lucky for you, we’ve had a few old gallons of milk collecting funk in the attic saved for just such an occasion. See you tomorrow night. Khaki’s, tie, and blazer like always. You might want to also pack a pair of running shoes.
Your Worst Nightmare