Brando OG by H.O.C.

maybe

proudly presents…

Brando OG by House of Cultivar

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Brando OG by House of Cultivar

Welcome back to toasted n’ posted where the exotics get roasted. Today, we have a strain from House of Cultivar dubbed Brando OG. This strain has also come to be known as Godfather OG. Whether it is a tribute to one of the greatest movies or actors of all-time, I’m sure that we’re in for a treat. While I’ve seen a couple possible spreads for the genetics, there isn’t any consistency that I’d be comfortable naming. Though, since this strain is branded an OG, I’m sure that is what we can largely expect. Details lie in the salacious subtleties, time to crack open the secret of Brando OG.

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My nose crashes against walls of raw herbal zest. A foul-knuckled fist of skunked moisture is launched at my senses. The impact births a savory cream fumed with pine and succulent earth. A citrus burst is cast out onto woody ocean air. A sugary sour spills tentatively over the rim. A padded feathery confectionary adds a rolling tenderness to the solemn advances of the profile.

The culmination mocks up a sweet dough, endlessly rolling to maintain a cake-batter fluidity. A chilled stone zest crumbles in the wake of the bloated essence. Cold waves lick up against a skunky citrus bridge. A fruity spark ignites a resounding chorus of responding funk. A grassy cheese shaves against the stern cool.

In efforts of furthering the molecular gastronomy before me, I snap a bushel of buds under my nose. I am torn apart by a savory gassy lash. My wounded sinuses flood with a smoked syrupy rind of hot sugar. Out from the simmering muck is a resurgence of pine embodying the classic cleaning agent jolt. Every sip from the sundered flower is a lancing lick of invigorating candy.

A smooth transition from the fragile dairy aroma is the bold cheesy appearance. Speckled across the crust of Brando OG are nacho colored stigmas and sandy trichomes. Tides of rusted yellow and rich orange pour across every shore of this flower. The arms of the stigmas begin with a strong base but thin and fork as they grow upward. The ends of some hairs fork into frazzled lightning bolts. Like ancient monuments that the jungles have overgrown, the foliage of Brando OG hurls itself into smooth mounds. Some of the buds are shaped like an elementary school model of a molecule. Large round masses hovering an invisible distance apart, peeking out from underneath a star-studded veil.

Beneath the snow-driven sea of golden resin, I struggle to discern the true colors of Brando OG. The schemes are chromatically polarized between each bud. The colas are primarily painted a rich pear that sneaks into torrents of hardened pine. The contrasting specimens are almost completely purple. A demeanor ruled by plum as deep as the night sky. The color is amazingly consistent with shifts so subtle that they appear as self-contained shadows. Fulfilling the OG prophecy in terms of bud structure, the density proves to be of no further fallacy. A willful squeeze finds very little room for movement within the bulwarks of Brando OG.

Leaf to flame, I stroll out onto a carpet of silken berry. Trailing the grand introduction is a granulated mob of honed blueberry and citrus lances. A juicy flame is cast upon the armaments reducing them into a succulent slurry of forest-driven fruit. My flesh is singed by the palpable flavor. Cackles of candied acidity test the sensitivity of my palette.

The boiled berry assault incites spurts of minty rebellion. Woody burps spread cinders haphazardly throughout the profile. The smoldering syrup of Brando OG ignites a bed of sylvan rockets. The finish of the flavor is warped into a pyre of sweet Duraflame logs. I reel in retreat from the potent plumes, but am enticed by the underlying menthol chill.

I feel my head become locked into place as invisible bolts of disarming warmth screw into my neck. Ghostly hands begin to knead the center of my back. I feel my muscles shift and squirm into a more amiable order. I lean back into the welcome massage as a snow globe distortion clouds my perspective. Suddenly, I realize my tongue has been siphoned of all moisture and is now a sponge of sandpaper.

The aggressive physical sensations are grounded by the arid desert that is now my mouth. I would find something to drink if the thought of moving wasn’t so dreadful. I am anchored to my chair, a helpless prisoner to the boundless bounties of euphoria offered by Brando OG. My limbs feel to be unwieldy tree trunks, unwilling pendulums of limited use.

Strangely enough, the initial warmth had nuzzled its way into my heart during this time and bestowed me with a blossoming kernel of energy. I have an explicitly foreign urge to get up and move. Lightning skins the soles of my feet as I combat the urge to dance. My eyes focus, fighting to see through the cloudy barriers of comfort. I slowly steal back pieces of my coherent mind as I begin to formulate a way out of this chair.

My plan may have worked, except for the fact that I’ve been smoking continuously throughout this entire expedition. Every fresh cloud feels as if it adds five pounds to my physical demeanor. I forfeit my struggle of resurrection and allow my mind to melt away. My willpower evaporates in a giggling furnace of demented bliss. I teeter on the edge of reality in half-hearted anticipation of my body rebooting. The longevity of this high is impressive, so be wary of how much power you borrow.

Brando OG, or Godfather OG, is a standout specimen from a sea of ambiguous OGs. This strain welcomes nuances of subtle sweetness and firm earth while still entertaining the classic qualities we’ve all come to expect from an OG strain. The bag appeal of this strain is huge and the high is bewildering to say the least. Be sure to scoop some Brando OG when you see it on the shelves of your local retailer. As always, thanks for reading!

Brando OG score: 91/100 points

Stay high and stay blessed,

Kushman Bonglegs

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