Thursday, August 11, 2011

AARP: The American Association of Resplendent Penguins

My cousin has been getting flooded with AARP mail. Without fail, every time the mailbox is opened there is another bullet-point riddled printout unabashedly spackled with pictures of Jerry Geriatric. Jerry is usually using his feeble cane-graspers to massage an older woman who he is probably dating because she puts out… the trash every Thursday night, which he somehow always forgets to do. The mail is by far the most entertaining communication we receive as a household; all else consists of bills and birthday cards from our insurance agents.

Smile! The camera adds ten years.
AARP is an acronym for Appropriate Age to Rest in Peace. While this doesn't mean you must necessarily find the nearest bucket and kick it, it does mean that you and whoever you spend your time with should break out that bucket list and ravish it from top to bottom. Some couples have a concerted art attack; the two biggest draws on their bank accounts become museum tickets and postcards from museum gift shops. Others choose to find peace by swapping overmedicaiding for oversharing and overmedicaring. Some get angry at their inability to express their thoughts; life becomes effing ineffable.

Back to the mysteries of the mailbox. At first, it seems odd that anyone in our household should be getting AARP mail. Our average age is 23.52. However, when you take into account my cousin’s maturity level, the picture begins to clarify; he is wise beyond his years. When you witness the things he can do with an eagle-handle cane with exotic inlaid hardwood, it becomes even more evident that he is the definition of what the AARP hopes to be. Finally, when you find out that he recently added himself as my Grandpa on Facebook, you understand completely. It proves that what happens off of Facebook didn’t happen, and what happens on Facebook is the most vital of the USDA’s recommended daily intake categories for social meat eaters.

Age is so circularly peculiar. What once was the most arresting void – the three years between 18 and 21 – is now simply one collection of memories on the line drive that is life. As birth and death act as baselines, pastimes lose their significance and we begin to find appeal in the sexy wild pitches the future is sure to toss at us.

Bring on the wild pitches, bitches. My name is Wesley King, my cousin is my grandpa, and I collect AARP mail for motivation. Viagra is my favorite salad topping.  

White t-shirts: recently patented by young AARPers.

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