Letter to the editor #3 (b)

Hey jerks! I read what you said about Weott, We are sick and tired of “weotta” jokes. Next time you want to talk shit on Weott. Why not talk about the lack of any stores or services or possibly the fact that our town has no sidewalks or that the funny weott center sign, Oh i know how bout the dumb lum names of all 15 of our streets or possibly the fact that last year they removed the only soda machine for 6 miles and the towns economy completly crashed thereafter. Or how about the blackberrys that grow downtown that are actualy ontop of the towns leech feilds and the tourist pick em in bundles! Well Shiottata!! Whatdda you say Weotta get outta here…… Oh and fuck the tourist, there is no gas station in our town and i dont give a fuck that you didnt plan for this, if you really need to just rob the CDF station like all the other tweekers! — Derek B.

Hey SH — my friend and I like your mag so far, but noticed a few discrepancies regarding “grow hos” (Issue #1).It’s a convoluted and confusing enterprise, so we thought we’d break down the hierarchy for you. It goes a little something like this …

Growers — They are the at the top of the hierarchy. Indoor growers aspire to be outdoor growers because the latter have more property, make more money, get to ride quads and get first pick of the trim bitches.

They are both paranoid and narcissistic, and tired of their jobs. The only time they get a vacation is to go to Reggae on the River or to their house in Costa Rica. Their trucks have lift kits, their pit bull/mastiff breeds are bored and they have a running tab at Everett’s. They have a few cell-phones: one for their business, a second for their girlfriends/wives, a third for their grow hos, and maybe a fourth to call Mom and Dad or their real estate agent in Costa Rica. They hope to retire someday and take over their parents’ property, but it probably won’t happen anytime soon.

Grow hos — Contrary to your article (“You Might Be a Grow Ho If … “), grow hos don’t ever work; certainly not with a pair of Fiskars. They are Humboldt’s gold diggers. They are most likely a girlfriend of the grower, separate from his wife or baby mama. They probably met him at Reggae on the River, GD/Phish shows, or used to be a trim bitch. They are high maintenance and have already set their sights higher than Humboldt growers, but that millionaire in Vegas hasn’t called them back yet. They might have done well enough as the grower’s arm candy to own their own place in Costa Rica, but it’s a very thin leash. They get their mani-pedis in Humboldt, but spend the bulk of their money in the Bay Area.

Grow bros — These are the “sloppy seconds”: partners of growers. In addition to maintaining side operations, they must also do the transporting of the goods. They aspire to have the same lifestyle as growers, but spend so much time on the hill or in the rooms or on the road that it’s almost impossible to reach that goal. Grow bros have a couple of cell phones as well: one to call the grower; another to call Mom and Dad for more money for their, um, college funds; and maybe a third to call their girlfriends, and/or trim bitches. Grow bros like to wear LRG everything (most likely a hoodie/ball cap/baggy jeans ensemble) and they have a running tab at the Alibi, or, unfortunately, Sidelines.

Trim bitches — Mostly female; they aspire to be grow hos. They’ve worked enough outdoor harvest seasons on the hill to have achieved seniority, which means they sleep in later in the morning, start taking shots sooner in the evening and do the worst job when it comes to quality control. As part of their grow ho grooming, they attempt a high-maintenance vegan diet, and expect the grow bros to cart their blenders and hula hoops and ill-mannered puppies up the long driveway to the grow cabin in exchange for possible sexiness later in the season. They talk a lot of shit at the work space, most of it beginning with “This one time, at Reggae/Oregon Country Fair/Burning Man/Earthdance …” Growers get first pick of the bitches, if their wives/baby mamas/grow hos don’t know or mind … and grow bros might get lucky, too.

Trimmers — These are the worker bees. They usually have another job or are supplementing their partner’s income. They show up, bring their own tools, and leave with the hopes of getting paid sooner than later. Some of them may aspire to be trim bitches or grow hos, but that depends on how hard they work and how much they want that lifestyle. They are expendable and easily replaced, especially if they’re unavailable at the drop of a hat (unless they work with a tight crew).

‘Heads — This is how it all starts. They love that diggity-dank sticky-icky. But buying eighths and dime bags is getting expensive, plus Mom and Dad are starting to pressure them about college. So, “Yo — my bro said he’d get me a job working security for Reggae on the River if I helped him out on the hill, plus I heard there’s some fine bitches up there and as much finger hash as you want …”

‘Nuff said … I hope this clears up any discombobulation regarding the twisted web of Humboldt’s finest employees.

Sincerely,
Ananni Mus

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