Grease Monkey by S.P.R.

Grease Monkey by Seattle’s Private Reserve

Grease Monkey by Seattle’s Private Reserve

Welcome back to toasted n’ posted! This evening we will be cracking into the vault of Seattle’s Private Reserve. Largely considered one of the better producers in Washington, SPR is always an exciting brand to revisit! Today, we will be getting down and dirty with Grease Monkey. This strain is a popular cross of Cookies & Cream and Gorilla Glue #4.

This particular production boasts 27% total cannabinoids and that is more than enough for me! The world may have grown tired of Gorilla Glue #4, but I assure you that I have not. Especially in new crosses, Glue offers so many unique attributes. I hope you stick around for this next review!

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I pop off the airtight lid of this ornate vessel to discover what treasure it contains. My nose is greeted by a surprisingly tame funky sour. The note is like skunk fused with green tea leaves. The muddled herb resonate a nullifying musk that crushing all surrounding fragrances. A chilled sweetness is born out of the aromatic lockdown. A harbinger of disheartened berry and aerated cream.

In hopes of torturing more notes out of Grease Monkey, I crush the flowers between my fingertips. A gassy stale citrus is unleashed, still restrained by the negating musk. The gas delves for further complexity; the herbal sour is augmented into a warhead of citrus grit. The resurgence completes with a rounding floral berry bounce. The profile has undergoes an 180 degree metamorphosis once pulverized by my fingertips.

Grease Monkey presents itself as Gorilla Glue #4 with inflated tires. The petals, bloated and spread, appear longing to draw inward. Unable to sure up into a fortress due to their unwieldy bulk, the flower remains bulky and spread. This bud structure is a perfect representation of a hybrid; snugly structured, yet writhing and spread. A floating mass of frozen white seemingly suspended in air. Grease Monkey’s ghostly arms crane outward, fragile wisps offering a friendly resolution. Each finger of the flowers are spiked with ranks of long trichomes. Elongated spikes of translucent milk stand as glistening tribute to Grease Monkey’s power.

This bud isn’t one for mustering a horde of hair. The stigmas are extremely few in number and are so feeble that they hardly hold merit of being noticed. Bronzed into a tarnished cream, the thin strands struggle to lift themselves away from the gravity of the crystal-coated planet. Though it is near impossible to distinguish the foliage’s true color beneath the quartz armor, I do manage to discern some rich pockets of color. In large, the verdancy of Grease Monkey leans toward pine and a shadowy moss hue. There are few sights more beautiful than a flower that protects its true color through the sheer volume of trichomes.

Leaf to flame, I am blasted with the ash of smoky leaf. The sylvan scraps are incinerated by a carnivorous gas. Out of the wounded forest, bleeds a wound of citrus pulp. Rich syrup gushes outward, a savory hash wrapped up in a thunderclap of dry leaf. The stunning flatness of such serves as a willing backboard of abiding compliment.

The smoked tang brands a mark of lancing sour leaf and powdered sugary gas into my tongue long after each hit. The gaseous notes seem to build into a wild frenzy the more I indulge. I feel as if my taste buds are being rewritten to absorb more and more of the signature bubbling sour zest.

The high takes a while to begin, it will be minutes perhaps as many as fifteen before you start to feel anything notable. But once the sequence begins, it builds quickly. After prolonged exposure to the powerful fumes, my brain begins to pulse. I feel space between my cortexes, as if my mind has additional room in which to breed and breath. I find my frame relaxes as I still relish the ripe diesel that dances upon my tongue. My eyes convert to feathery clouds, cotton balls resident in their sockets. I feel a fluidity take place in my back, soothing away the aches of a long day.

My muscles massage themselves, freeing my physical form of all unwanted tension in disease. I feel any preexisting discomfort melt out of my body, being purged from my pores. I take a deep breath of exasperated pleasure; lazily looking around to see if I hadn’t been transported to a realm of unequivocal pleasure.

Grease Monkey, that funky monkey. I was really happy to get this strain on the books and grant some much deserved exposure to Seattle’s Private Reserve. This strain was a really difficult one to analyze. It hides its best characteristics; reserving them only for those who are willing to go the distance. I recommend you go the distance to your nearest dispensary and pick some up! Trees Pot Shop north of Seattle is where I uncovered this particular jar. As always, thanks for reading.

Grease Monkey score: 84/100

Aroma – 13

Physical – 20

Flavor – 16

Consistency – 17

Sensation – 18

Stay high and stay blessed,

Kushman Bonglegs

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