Filed in a haze by your disoriented correspondent, live from somewhere between certified and certified fucked.
ST. LOUIS — 10:43 P.M., THURSDAY NIGHT — TRAP CONFIRMED.
I’m hunched in the backseat of a 2012 Dodge Charger with a Ganjier named Bradley, who smells like cardamom and trust fund. He’s in full beige three-piece linen like he’s about to officiate a Napa wedding for two heirloom tomatoes. His leather-bound terpene journal is clutched to his chest like a holy text. We’re on the way to what he’s been calling a “grassroots terpene exploration pop-up.” My guy. You’re going to a trap house.
We arrive. Cinderblock vibes. Flickering porch light. Smells like resin, trauma, and raw ambition. No one’s greeted — or invited — us, but Bradley strolls in like it’s a Sonoma barrel tasting.
Inside? Chaos. Three dudes in hoodies weighing QPs on a busted Xbox. A Chihuahua in a diaper barks nonstop under a table stacked with vacuum-sealed Ziplocs. A teenager’s eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos off a Frisbee. Bradley exhales like he just arrived at the Louvre.
“Ohhhh, this bouquet... top notes of... diesel, gym sock, and is that... despair?” — Bradley, Actual Ganjier, Mid-Inhale
The dealer — let’s call him Juiceboxx — is unfazed. “He your lawyer or sum’n?”
Bradley flashes his laminated Ganjier badge. Juiceboxx shrugs, lights a Backwood, and turns the music up to “my mom’s not home.” It’s drill music and gun talk with heavy, unearned confidence.
Bradley whispers:
“Do you think this is a dominant sesquiterpene profile? There’s definitely a spicy back end.”
Bro. The only spicy back end here is the hot sauce someone dumped into the hookah to “experiment.”
I ask Bradley how this compares to his last sensory evaluation.
“In Mendocino, we paired a Lemon Lava with a 2014 Pouilly-Fumé and a microdose of existential euphoria.” — Bradley, Definitely Gonna Cry in the Uber
Here? He’s paired an eighth of “Obama Runtz” with whatever’s in the ashtray and a cold Faygo. I think he’s blinking Morse code for help.
Suddenly, someone yells “RAID!” and three people hit the back window like it’s an obstacle course on Wipeout. Bradley drops his terpene wheel. It lands in a puddle of purple drank and shame. Turns out, it was a joke. Everyone laughs. Except Bradley, who looks like he just saw a pesticide up close.
11:12 P.M. — THE EVALUATION CONTINUES.
He insists on conducting a “ceremonial dry pull.” He closes his eyes. Sips the blunt air. Moans like he’s at a silent yoga retreat.
“The inhale is… challenging. The exhale? Unexpectedly violent. I’d describe this cultivar as… aggressive, yet hopeful.”
He says this while someone throws dice near a jug of bleach and two pit bulls hump in the corner.
11:37 P.M. — POST-TASTING DEBRIEF.
We escape to the car. Bradley’s eyes are redder than a D.A.R.E. poster. He scribbles in his notebook with trembling hands.
“This… was important. I need to update the rubric. There are expressions of cannabis that exist outside the framework. This wasn’t just weed… it was truth.”
He might be crying. Or maybe the blunt had literal ammonia in it. Hard to tell.
FINAL REPORT:
The Ganjier survived. Technically. He’s changed. He’s seen things. Smelled things. Got verbally roasted by a 19-year-old wearing pajama pants and a TEC-9 fanny pack.
Would I recommend this for all certified cannabis professionals? Absolutely. Call it “Continuing Street Ed.” Real weed culture isn’t in a Napa tasting room. It’s in the trenches — behind a dirty curtain in North City with Trap Beethoven bumping through blown-out subs.
And Bradley? He left whispering something about “writing a new terpene lexicon… from the block, for the block.”
We’ll check in once he gets his stomach pumped.
Filed from Boof du Jour. Don’t try this at home. Or do. Just don’t wear beige.
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