W.W. Felch

Hey folks, it’s your friendly neighborhood Felch here with this week’s crop report for the Wasatch Front. My guy came through this week with some fine, yea even exceedingly fine, Sour Diesel. You may have heard of the stuff; a super fast-acting sativa strain that will put a burning in your bosom like it was the Day of Pentecost. I thought I would try it out and bear witness to y’all.

Of course you could enjoy this quality herb in the privacy of your own room, but I like to commune with the spirit in the sacred tabernacle of nature when possible. And late spring is a marvelous time to be high in the Beehive State.

Now Sour D is some stanky stank so when out and about with it I recommend hiding your candle under a bushel if you take my meaning. For me the ideal traveling kit for the enterprising Mormon smoker (or sMOker) on the go is your standard triple-combination tote. Mine is lined with cedar and I add a few drops of Doterra lemon oil from time to time. It ain’t gonna fool no drug dog, but it should pass the casual glance of Salt Lake’s finest.

But which apparatus should I use to feel the spirit? Many kids these days prefer the discrete convenience of a vaporizer, and I too enjoy the ease of a Pax Ploom from time to time. But since my plan was to enjoy the Diesel out in god’s country it only seemed right to go analog, aka a joint.

Many sMOkers will tell you the best joints are rolled with pages from the scriptures. But once you rip out the story of Moses and the burning bush what else are you gonna use? No, for me the rolling paper of choice is the good old fashioned tithing slip. It only seems right when you spend 10 percent of your income on weed.

So with the Sour Diesel all wrapped up tight, like unto a dish, I headed out the door. If you are looking for a sweet spot to spark up a J in the City of Salt, you couldn’t do much better than the Salt Lake Cemetery up in the Avenues. I find mingling with the elders of the past puts me in the right space to receive some reefer revelation.

I fired up my doob while kneeling on Porter Rockwell’s headstone. I had scarcely done so, when immediately I was seized upon by some power which entirely overcame me, and had such an astonishing influence over me as to bind my tongue so that I could not speak. Thick darkness gathered around me, and it seemed to me for a time as if I were doomed to sudden destruction.

But that initial unpleasantness passed and soon I was hie-ing to Kolob like a motherfucker. Seriously, talk to your guy. Get some Sour Diesel. Invite some friends over and puff, puff, pass the sacrament.

Godspeed my brothers and sisters.