Densans and hot sauce

I’ve been enamored for some time now of the songwriting of Emily Kaitz, a local performer with a distinctly twisted, not to say Mensan, sense of wordplay.  You’ve got to admire someone who can write a song complaining of a former housemate, “You Came Out of the Closet, but I’m Still Trying to Get You Out of My Drawers” or, commenting on a significant other’s sign of commitment, “My Baby Gave Me an Onion Ring” or, lamenting today’s lifestyle, “I’ve Been Away From Myself Too Long.”

However, my absolute favorite is none of these.  Each of us has a dark side, an aspect of personality called the Shadow by the Jungians.  (Mojo Nixon says that it’s the side ain’t got no Elvis.)  And for a Mensan, the Shadow is expressed by its inverse—the Densan.  A Densan, my friends, is a member of the bottom two percent of the intelligence curve.  A Densan couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the directions written on the heel.  If a Densan’s IQ were any lower, you’d have to water him twice a day.  And Emily Kaitz has written the Densan national anthem:  “Shallow End of the Gene Pool.”  Everyone stand, raise your beers—no, make sure they’re right side up first—and chant, more or less in the same key:

My daddy was a man of letters, my mama was a head of state,
But when they put their chromosomes together, they gave me all of their recessive traits.
I’m an embarrassment to evolution, my disposition is unstable and cruel;
My blood’s a catastrophic blend ’cos I’m from the shallow end of the gene pool.

My IQ is a negative number, I got a sense of humor no one can stand,
My development was seriously encumbered by a deficient thyroid gland.
I’m a social director’s nightmare—at dinner parties I just babble and drool,
You know it’s hard makin’ friends when you’re from the shallow end of the gene pool.

I’m from the shallow end of the gene pool,
My X-rays make the doctors laugh.
One time they tried to chart my EEG waves,
And I wasn’t even on the graph!

Biological research is booming, they’re making breakthroughs like you wouldn’t believe,
And genetic alteration in humans will one day soon be a reality.
They’re gonna give me a DNA transplant, they’re gonna rearrange my molecules,
Some natural laws’ll have to bend to get me from the shallow end of the gene pool! *

Thank you.  You may now sit down.  Be sure to sit ON THE CHAIRS, DAMMIT!

Definitely Densan material.  And although Emily won’t admit to it, I think she’s M-qualified, myself.  Anyone who’s that inventive with language has gotta have some smarts.

So whatta this got to do with cooking, I hear some weisenheimer in the back benches ask.  Easy.  Emily wrote our recipe for this month, explaining the wonders of one of our colorful native dishes to Ohioans and other furriners in verse, as follows:

PICO DE GALLO

Pico de gallo, you oughta give it a try-o,
Even if you’re from Ohio, it’ll get you by-o;
Don’t get it in your eye-o, unless you wanna cry-o,
So come on, don’t be shy-o, eat some pico de gallo!

It’s got jalapeños (2 to 3); I reckon y’all have seen those,
They’re kinda hot for gringos, and probably flamingos;
Add some tomatillos (2 cups, cooked), some onions (¼ cup, chopped) and cilantro (1 Tbsp fresh),
Lime juice (1 tsp) and tomato (1 cup, chopped)—you got pico de gallo! *

* Copyright © Pingleblobber Music

The irrefutable Beanie Baby distributed a gravel hard hat.  Fnord.