Once upon a dimebag, weed was a handshake, a lighter flick, and the backseat of some dude’s Civic that smelled like burned incense and adolescent dreams. It was giggles in basements, Zig-Zags in glove boxes, and your cousin Dave who always had the hookup and always forgot your change. It was simple. Not easy—never easy—but gloriously, beautifully simple.
Now?
Now it’s a goddamn spreadsheet.
Now weed’s got SOPs, KPIs, HR, PR, QR codes, C-suite execs in Patagonia vests who say things like “consumer segmentation” while sipping a CBD seltzer named after a bird. The culture that once smelled like freedom now reeks of compliance. The same people who would’ve locked you up for a joint are now microdosing their way to keynote speeches about “mindful elevation.” It’s the Silicon Valleying of the soul.
Weed isn’t just a plant anymore. It’s a lifestyle brand. A flavor. A color palette. There are terpene consultants. Social equity audits. Corporate mascots named things like Leafy or Greenie the Cannabot. The stoner is no longer sacred; he’s segmented. Targeted. Optimized.
And here’s the kicker: they’ve written Standard Operating Procedures for Culture—as if vibes can be institutionalized.
Culture doesn’t come with a damn manual. It comes with people. Messy people. Loud people. Burnt-out people. High-as-balls, creative, broke, brilliant people who built the whole damn thing while ducking cops and stealing lighters.
But somewhere along the way, someone put it in a folder. With tabs. With revisions. With a fucking mission statement.
And now we’re all pretending that the spirit of rebellion can be sold in 3.5g, childproof-sealed, with a government warning and a loyalty program.
It’s absurd. It’s predictable. It’s America.
Weed was supposed to be simple.
But this?
This is capitalism in a weed suit, doing downward dog, and charging you $49.99 for the strain that once grew free behind a gas station.
Light one up for the old world.
And keep an eye on your lighter—corporate might just brand it next.
Keep it weird,
~-JohnsJoints
