Paul Constant

In last week's Stranger, I wrote about the Genius Awards party at the Henry. The part that didn't get covered in any sort of detail, though, was the afterparty. Our gracious hostess offered up her home at the spur of the moment and now Geniuses—and other folks who are smart enough to keep drinking—are settling in for a long night.

Someone's unscrewing the tops from Oreos and eating the insides. "Jesus," someone else says, "how can you eat that? It's just Crisco and sugar." "Which part are you against?" asks the Oreo eater, dipping the sandwich cookie in his beer. "Well, I guess the Crisco," snaps the protester, adding, "Don't you waste that cookie in beer!" This is making my head hurt, so I turn to someone else, who informs me that "I kind of feel like someone slipped me a rave."

A woman grabs my notebook and tries to read my notes of the above cookie conversation. She gets every single word wrong. Here's her translation of my handwriting: "Fuck this shit! I am a racist! I can see all these inferior races! Does anybody know where the opera house is?" She hands the notebook back to me, adding, "Sorry, I just got back from Germany." A bow-tie speed-tying contest devolves into a slapping contest, which devolves into a one-sided beer-chugging contest on the lawn. Someone gets unnaturally obsessed with a photographer's ass. And somebody speaks the perfect epitaph for the evening: "Sometimes you've just gotta be smart enough to get STOOpid, y'know?"

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