Today is famous aviator and feminist icon Amelia Earhart's 115th birthday. She was pretty awesome.
In case you're wondering what to get her for her birthday, I'm afraid I have no idea. You see, even though she disappeared quite some time ago, in 1937, at the age of 39, and we're not sure exactly where she ended up, I can say that, in all confidence, that she's dead.
Well, maybe I'm just making an assumption here, but most people do not live to the age of 115. And yet, the news seems to report that she has turned 115 years old today. Funny, that.
It seems to me, just seems, that when a person has disappeared for a few- let's say, for instance, 75- years, we can safely assume that the person has long passed on. And yet, here we are, noting her 115th birthday.
I don't think she's going to make the party. She might be a little busy today. Busy being fucking dead.
What is this sickness in our society that we have to celebrate the birthdays of people who are long dead? Can't we celebrate these people, these icons, on whichever day we please? Are they so bound to the day they were born that they are forever doomed to only being remembered one day a year, and it's acted as though they've continued to age? I don't know about you, but when I see Amelia Earhart's picture, she doesn't look a day over 30. She's looking pretty good for somebody over a century old. Maybe it's in the genes.
What do George Washington, Walt Disney, Thomas Edison, Elvis Presley, Joan of Arc, Alexander Fleming, Emily Dickinson, and Benjamin Disraeli all have in common? Here's a hint: My maternal grandparents also have this in common.
Give up? They're dead. Expired. They're wormfood.
Amelia Earhart is not 115 years old. You know why? Because she's dead. She's not aging. You have to be alive to get older.
I'll tell you what's getting old, though. This stupid shit about celebrating dead people's birthdays. You don't get to have a birthday when you're dead. You've plum run out of birthdays, fella. You had a good run, had plenty of cake and ice cream, got to play with some balloons, even probably got a couple of birthday blowjobs from that girl with the clap you wanted to finger in the waffle house. But once your life is over, your career in birthdaydom is finished. No more pinatas. No more free drinks. No more presents.
"But Penguin Truth," come the cries from the internet, "We're just trying to honor the memory of [insert person here] when we celebrate their birthday."
You know when's a good time to do that? Wednesday. Next Monday. Three Saturdays from now. After you wake up, before you go to bed, after lunch, before you take a shit, while you're jerking off, whenever. Whenever. If you need a particular set time to think about another person, if you need a day on the calendar to celebrate the triumphs of a particular historical figure, you're already an asshole. Remember them at different times. In fact, make sure you remember them on a day nobody else around you is remembering them. That's when they need remembering the most.
And for fuck's sake, stop adding up their age. Amelia Earhart isn't 115 years old. She's fucking dead. Bad enough she crashed, she needs to age some more, too? Let go and give the poor woman some fucking rest.
