Words I hate

Cotillion.

Sure, I'm no connoisseur of elegance in the form of dresses, long white gloves, the American south, young women, and curtsying. In fact, I would be lying if I said I've never entertained a drowsy afternoon fantasy of driving a Volkswagen Jetta on to ballroom floor of a debutante ball, whipping a Koran at some old lady's head, and then lighting myself on fire.

But all the same this word's just gross. Every time I hear it, I can feel the tip of a quill being lifted from dusty parchment. Knowing that its origin is French doesn't help any.