Mensa or Menso – You Be the Judge

My sweetie is always after me to clean things out of my closet. You know, pants so old they still have cuffs. Coats even more ancient than the Members Only jacket that Brent Carter still strolls around in. Tax returns over 50 years old. My baby diapers…that sort of stuff.

One day I finally I gave in and began the cleaning-up job with my filing cabinet. I had just started shuffling papers around when I was startled to come across a forgotten gem. “Look what I found, mommy,” I shouted out, “my acceptance to Mensa!”

It seems that many years ago I had applied to join the high IQ society, offering my college entrance exam results, which were in the top 2 percent range, for credentials.

“See, mommy, see, they approved me,” I babbled in excitement while waving the paper.
“You never told me you were a member of Mensa,” Barbara said skeptically.

“Well, actually I never did join,” I admitted in dismay. “Not sure why. Guess I must have forgotten to follow through,” I shrugged.

“Mensa?” Barbara laughed. You’re not a Mensa, you’re a menso!”

Menso means idiot in Spanish. Barbara is fluent in the language because she is half Jewish and half Mexican. Her favorite food is a gefilte fish taco and if she can’t buy something wholesale she steals it.

She took another look at the admittance paper. “Oh, I see, they wanted a $6 payment for doing the registration of evidence of testing. No wonder you didn’t join, you cheapskate.”

“Oh, yeah, well it’s never too late,” I said stubbornly. “I’m going to re-apply, and you’ll be proud of me when I become a member.”

I went ahead, requested admission a second time…and was accepted! Unfortunately, that $6 fee I owed for paperwork after 60-some years at 15 percent compounded interest had now climbed to over $25,000, along with an annual membership fee of $70, but I wouldn’t let money stand in the way of such an honor, so I gulped and paid it. In due course, I received my Mensa card along with information on where the next gathering would be held. Proudly, I walked into the meeting hall, eager to mingle with my fellow geniuses.

The meeting was called to order. “We have a new member here tonight,” the speaker announced. “His name is Max Shapiro. Max, how about coming up here on stage and telling us something about yourself to demonstrate your intelligence.” After a couple of minutes, he added, with some exasperation, “Will someone please show Max where the steps are and help the old boy find his way up?”

Trying not to show my embarrassment, I stepped up to the mike and introduced myself. “Hi, everybody,” I said nervously. I’m Maxwell Shapiro, but you can call me Max.”

“What do you do?” somebody called out.”

“I’m a writer,” I replied.

“For whom – The New York Times, The Economist?

“Uh, not exactly. I write for Card Player magazine. It’s a poker publication,” I explained.

“Oh, you write poker strategy,” the speaker said admiringly. “That must take a lot of knowledge and expertise.”

I was beginning to get a little nervous. “Well, as a matter of fact, I just write sort of a humor column.” I pulled a current issue out of my pocket. “Here, let me read my latest one to you.”

I began reading: “Stopping by the Barstow Card Casino, I was greeted by Big Denny. ‘Hey Maxey,’ he bellowed…”

There were a couple of boos and hisses, and someone in the audience called out, “Is that any way to start a story?”

“As a matter of fact,” I stuttered, “most all of my columns start that way.”

“And they pay you for that?”

“Well, maybe not as much as I’m worth, but yes, they do.”

I noticed several people in the audience shaking their heads in disbelief. The speaker tried to help me. “Tell us about your hobbies, Max. I’m sure they’re interesting.”

“Hobbies? Well, I like to play marbles and spider solitaire. And I collect bottle caps. I once tried doing crossword puzzles, but I couldn’t find any words. Oh, and I like to go to movies…if it’s a Superman movie, that is.”

“Do you play poker?” he asked, still trying to help me.

“Sometimes, but I never win,” I admitted. “I have trouble remembering some of the more complicated strategy rules, like a straight beating a flush. Barbara says I’m dead money. She’s a little better than me, so I mostly watch her play. She likes that because then I can bring her water when she’s thirsty.”

In dismay, I saw several people get up and start to walk out. “How’d they let that clown in?” somebody shouted. “Yeah,” another chimed in sarcastically, “Tell us your secret for staying so sharp, Maxwell.”

“Well,” I answered, “I once read that doing some of your everyday things with your non-dominant hand is good for your mind, so I when I play with myself I try to do it with my left hand.”

The speaker realized that things were getting out of hand as the remaining members began throwing things and storming out. “Well, Max, it’s been a pleasure hearing from you. Meeting dismissed,” he added abruptly.

A couple of days later Barbara asked how the Mensa meeting went.

“Oh, it was swell,” I replied. “They had me on stage and asked me a lot of questions about myself. It was really a fun evening.”

“Really?” Barbara smiled. “Then how do you explain this letter that just got here?”
She handed me a note from Mensa headquarters, and my heart sank as I read it:

“Dear Mr. Shapiro,

“We regret to inform you that your membership in Mensa has been canceled. We received numerous complaints about your ignorant and incoherent talk at a meeting last week and fear that your continued participation would drag down the average IQ level of our members disastrously. We suggest that you find a more appropriate discussion group, such as in an old-age home.”

Okay, I guess Barbara was right. Just call me Menso Max. ♠

Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched more than 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read ’em and Laugh.