The easy answer is no. But if you follow the logic of no, and knowing, as we do, the properties of no-ness, it would imply that the hard answer is yes.

The evidence to support this claim is nowhere to be found, and I know of no one yet who has successfully argued this argument.

Why is this? No one knows for sure, but I have a theory, and the theory is sound.

Smoking pot makes you a genius.

There comes a time when even the most erudite of nincompoops considers this very difficult proposition, and there are many facets to consider in this deluge.

For example, what is a genius?

What is weed? What defines weed?

What are the essential properties of both the sticky and the icky?

What is it like to be a ganja leaf?

What does one mean when one hopes to “venture to the park, after dark, to smoke that tumbleweed?”

These are the questions that have plagued humanity’s greatest minds across centuries. 

Let us, as a good genius sometimes should, consider the facts. Let us consider the uncountable times someone has said something of untamable genius directly after lighting up. 

For example, coincidentally, just this past week, a colleague of mine remarked, upon taking a larger hit from our shared, communal blunt, that, “There are so many stars, you know, up there, and each one has galaxies, you know, and each galaxy has even more stars, maybe, so, like, when do you run out of stars, completely, you know?” but our conversation was not limited to questions of astronomy, no, that was only the first course. The main was far more succulent.  

The main course, of course, was weed—and it made us geniuses. We could tell we were geniuses, because of how intelligent we were being, and besides, we wouldn’t lie if we were high.

Besides, as far as I could tell, the more I was aware of being a genius, the more intelligent I became. I could do complicated maths, remember obscure facts of world history, and began to deeply philosophize the clitoris. 

Our next topic of discussion, of course, was global secrets. My friend pointed out, very astutely, that I had never been to the moon, nor had been on a boat near the South Pole. “But what consequence does this have in relation to our current conversation?” I asked. (Sometimes I indulge the unfortunate bad habit of prattling along in the common speech. It is a hopeless affliction to which I believe even my genius is unequipped for curing). 

My friend responded thusly, “Well, how do you know the world is flat if you’ve never been around the whole thing or seen it from space?” 

I watched a shooting star cross the sky. The space object blared with a bright, eternal light and I was afraid it would shoot down right on top of me and squash my head. But it didn’t. 

The shooting star just went away. From this I surmised that my friend was correct—the world is flat. 

There was no answer to my friend’s query. The logic was sound. The intelligence rock hard. The conclusion undebatable. “My god,” I said. “How horribly we’ve all been led astray. We must enlighten the public!” 

My friend, (who is a far wiser genius than even I), only shook his head wisely, and sadly, and said, “We can’t. They’re all plugged into the hivemind.” 

As I sucked all the fat from the last breath of roach, twisted indelicately between my rather interesting and complex fingers, I surmised that my fellow genius was correct about hiveminds—I had watched several documentaries on bees as a child, and could, as I thought harder, see the similarities between bees building their hives and office employees clamouring over each other to get their reports filed in time, or whatever non-geniuses do with their miserable waking lives these days.

Yes, I had seen a man once who looked rather beetle-like, in fact, my friend was a perfect example, as he seemed to transform that very moment, to assume the shape of a giant praying mantis, of which previously my friend had held little resemblance. 

Together we leapt into the sky, to see the earth from the moon and determine if the earth is flat. 

Which brought me to the next question, which is truly the mark of any genius—follow-through. 

What if the moon is flat too? 

But, as I looked at the moon and wondered what was on its flat other side, I knew the answer to my question. If there’s one thing a genius understands completely, it is that some things are not meant to be known. 

Yes, it was true that the weed we smoked that night was undeniably cut with something, something undeniably hallucinogenic, but that fact holds little bearing upon the revelation I experienced, waking shirtless and draped across the sticky inside lip of a public urination receptacle, with my lips against the porcelain. 

This world is flat. I saw it with my friend the praying mantis, as we sat atop the moon. 

And I knew this because smoking pot does, in fact, undeniably, make you a genius.

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