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Grease Monkey seeds. Damn. Where do I even start?
This strain—this sticky, stanky, unapologetically loud beast—isn’t for the faint-hearted. You crack open a jar and boom, the room’s full of that diesel-funk-sweet hybrid aroma that makes your nose crinkle and your mouth water at the same time. It’s like someone dipped a banana in motor oil and lit it on fire. In a good way. If that makes sense.
Genetically, it’s a lovechild of GG4 (Gorilla Glue) and Cookies & Cream. Which, yeah, sounds like a dessert gone rogue. But it hits like a freight train. Heavy indica lean, but not a total couch-lock unless you overdo it—which, let’s be real, you probably will. I did. Twice.
Growing these seeds? Not rocket science, but not idiot-proof either. They’re photoperiod, so you’ll need to know your light cycles. Indoors, you can dial it in—control the chaos. Outdoors, though? They stretch. Like, reach-for-the-sky stretch. And they’re hungry. Nutrient hogs. Don’t skimp or they’ll sulk. Leaves yellow, buds go sad. Nobody wants that.
But when they’re happy? Oh man. Dense, trichome-caked colas that look like they’ve been rolled in powdered sugar and regret. The kind of buds that make you pause before grinding—like, “Do I really wanna break this up?”
Smoke report? Thick. Creamy. A little peppery on the exhale. First hit’s mellow, second hit’s a warm blanket, third hit—oops, you’re horizontal. It’s got that slow-creep high, too. You think you’re fine, then suddenly you’re staring at the ceiling wondering how long you’ve been listening to the same song on repeat. (Answer: 47 minutes.)
Medical folks dig it for pain, anxiety, insomnia. I just like it because it makes the world shut up for a while. Everything gets soft around the edges. Like the volume knob on life got turned down just enough to breathe.
Bag appeal? Off the charts. Sticky as hell. You’ll need a grinder unless you want your fingers glued together. And the smell lingers—on your clothes, in your hair, in your soul. Don’t smoke this before a job interview unless your job is “guy who smells like weed.”
Honestly, Grease Monkey isn’t subtle. It’s not trying to be. It’s loud, proud, and a little bit dirty. Like a dive bar with a velvet couch and a jukebox that only plays stoner rock. You either love it or you don’t. I do.
And the seeds? If you can get your hands on legit ones—do it. Grow it once and you’ll understand. It’s not just about the yield (though yeah, it’s solid). It’s about the vibe. The ritual. The transformation from tiny seed to towering, resin-soaked monster. It’s kind of beautiful. In a grimy, sticky, punch-you-in-the-face kind of way.
Anyway. That’s Grease Monkey. Take it or leave it. But if you take it—buckle up.