Times are tough, but these are better buds than your grandpa smaked

Dispatches from the Highlands

News from CannaTown
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Son, now that you're of legal age, it's time we had a little talk about the nugs we smake in this family. You may never see me bring home a cup strain much less one of them live resins. But I want you to be proud of who you are and what you smake. And appreciate it, consarnit. Times may be tough. But think of the rough uncured, barely-flowered meal-grain bud your grandpa smaked. We're roasting better nugs now, we all are. And we need to recognize.

I know, you and your friends all have a dream of bottomless wax and rosin receptacles, and stogies full of hash and bong bowls packed to the brim carelessly with keef while the sounds of summer endure. But do you ever stop and wonder, for a moment, what kind of toils and terror your grandfather would go through to procure or grow his own satchels? Has he ever told you about collecting tiny leaf after tiny leaf from his shag divan in the parlor, whilst pretending to look for a missing cuff link?

He had a knack for finding any and every method of extracting noids, methods you wouldn’t believe. Your grandpa would bend any wires or paperclips within arm’s reach and toil for hours! And for what? All for the most measly wad of resin, to lay on a bed of moldy steems from under the bureau. Steems! Can you imagine the horror?

Imagine this day in age, sitting for an hour in a K-Mart parking lot, never knowing if a hookup got your text or forgot about you, after little more than the slightest high in over a fortnite, all from the most treasured of roaches, found during long afternoons of treasure hunting. Imagine being handed a brown brick after waiting a month for kind, only to be told the drought has arrived. Oh! The desperation of those times, son.

You’ll hear people bicker and scream about their rights and property, and how it’s all being taken away -- well, don’t listen to it. Forget every word of it. Nobody remembers all the times your grandfather tried desperately to root the beans he found in his ditchweed, growing them in old cracked flower pots and yard buckets behind the barn. And sixty days down in the county jail for mere possession of a crummert! Recognize!

Mark my words, as he told me, and I tell you now, we work hard in this family with the hope that our sons and daughters may smake better crops and live better lives. And that's what we have, dadgummit. Next time you incinerate that wax with your little cosmo-vape, you remember: your gramps worked hard to get you that spark.

I'm glad we had this little talk. 

 

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