Tokyo Sweet
Sprouted 1/1/2026
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Get Out the Vote
We are officially in ‘Historic Runoff’ territory! After two ties in a row, the tension is higher than… well, you know 
.
Antoine is ready to transport anyone that needs help getting to the polls. If you haven’t voted in the final runoff yet, hop in! There’s plenty of room in the van and the vibes are kumbaya!
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We must be in tune, I have Tokyo Sweet seeds ready to germinate this weekend. I have never grown a garlicy smelling plant, hope the wife doesn’t mind 
. Good luck 
.
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It’ll be my first garlic one too. I was drawn to it by the picture they had of it, dark violet almost black. It’ll be interesting to see the phenos it produces. Hopefully the filters keep the dank down.
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Ha ha I grew ilgm GMO or garlic mushrooms and onions, it’s still curing and as she does OMG she is the strangest tasting weed I have ever had!!! And I gotta say so garlicky woody oniony aftertaste it’s weird.
Fantastic in other aspects too, one that gives me the craziest body/head rushes, body quakes and dizziness close to black out lol 
I take big old bong hits
Anyway hopefully yours has great taste as well brother, have a great day my friend 
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WoW that sounds like an amazing strain, I can’t wait to see what this one’s got in store… maybe not the dancing on the edge of consciousness part, well maybe 
. So far Manbearalienpig is the loudest I’ve grown, in my wife’s words, it smells wretched 
. . . but it tasted good which was a pleasant surprise . Hope your evening goes well brother.
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Yuzu Euphoria Auto
Final dried weight 183 gr. Not too shabby.
Tokyo Sweet
2 days above ground in her final home which is a 5 gal bag. Her and her home are courtesy of I:purple_heart:GM via the Purple Kush Auto community grow. It fits well into the autopot tray
Apple Fritter
72 days up, 28 days flowering. Still behind the nitro curve, to late to worry I guess.
She’s still spreading out and has taken on a lovely aroma that’s difficult to describe, sweet yet savory with a hint of gas, Im sure it will continue to evolve as she draws nearer to her day.
Another Level - 86 days up, 43 days flowering. She got her pot flushed as did all the older ladies. I had to support them big bobble head looking cola’s to keep something from snapping off 
. She’s a bit soft spoken but has that dignified OG weed Aurora about her.
Parvati X NL5BX -72 Days up, 28 days flower.
This girl is after my heart. That fantastic Himalayan aire about her with a hint of the Northern Lights ozonic cleanse. She loves the bright lights, her cousin not so much so we’re in between with intensity.
Tent Shot
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nice update growmie…
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Appreciate it brother
How’s your young’uns doing?
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morning Willy… thanks for asking… I had a very slow start to this grow… I think having the humidity in the high 20 low 30 was not good for the seedlings to start off in…I never had humidity that low before and didn’t think it was that important since they are sitting over bubbling water… 31 days from a seed …
these are all gifted from @ravenchief …
London Marker
Red Rumspringa and Chimera
where is my story???
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Morning @Retiredoldguy @WilIy
Yea they still need to be able to transpire humidity plays a key part in that:grin:
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Plants are looking great, and congrats on the new weed baby! 
I don’t see Antoine’s Pot Pizza in his and Willy’s 2026 celebration picture, though maybe that had already been eaten … yeah, must be, knowing what I do about Antoine … 
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Antoine would scarf that pizza in less time than it took me to type this missive……dang!….now I have to make pizza!!
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They’re looking great despite the challenges!
It’s simmering on the storyboard. I appreciate you brother.
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That’s what happened to me, I transpired so much my trichomes turned gray and fell out
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Thank you ma’am.
You are correct .
Pizza has a 30 second life expectancy around Antoine. I’ve seen him play it where it lays while disregarding the 5 second rule on many occasions.
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That’s a good thing!! 
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Himalayan Mountain Mama
The static crackled like a cosmic campfire, a familiar comfort in Wildwood Willy’s cozy Appalachian cabin. Perched precariously on his stool, his tarsier fingers deftly worked the knobs of his repurposed CB radio, a contraption he’d modded with enough alien tech to broadcast beyond the stratosphere. He tuned it to 420 mhz. WilIy adjusted his blue “Wildwood Willy” hat until it was cocked just so, a wisp of smoke curling from his spoon pipe as he leaned into the microphone.
“Breaker, breaker four-two-oh, this is Wildwood Willy,” he chirped, his voice a surprisingly deep rumble for such a small creature. “Anyone out there in the Andromeda quadrant catchin’ my drift? How’bout ya Danker, got ya ears on? Over.”
A moment of silence, then the static sharpened, coalescing into a chorus of extraterrestrial giggles. “Willy, my man!” a distorted, yet undeniably joyful voice responded. It was Danker and Ziporg, their faces now flickering on the radio’s small screen, both grinning like cosmic Cheshire cats. “We copy you loud and clear! What’s the good word from the third rock?”
“The good word, my galactic dudes,” Willy puffed, exhaling a perfect smoke ring that drifted towards the ceiling, “is powder. Deep, fresh, untouched powder. And I’m talkin’ Himalayan kind of powder. Y’all up for a little shred sesh? My buddy Antoine, you remember Antoine, the pizzaddict-cat? he’s totally in too.”
“Himalayan, you say?” Ziporg’s voice chimed in, a higher, more effervescent tone. “And Antoine? Excellent! Our intergalactic munchie cannon is fully loaded. Consider our cosmic taxi services booked, no cap! Give us… oh, twenty minutes to navigate the asteroid belt and grab some of that premium space-grade ‘dank.’ We’ll swing by your coordinates. Prepare for lift-off, my friend!”
Willy grinned, a wide, toothy tarsier smile. “Roger that, space cadets! WilIy, over and out!” He clicked off the radio, already picturing the epic drops and zero-gravity laughs. This was going to be one for the cosmic history books. He turned to the half eaten pizza box on his desk, where a furry orange form was already making quick work of a slice.
“Antoine, buddy!” Willy announced, nudging the cat with his elbow. “Get ready to hit the slopes. Dank & Zip are on their way, and they’re bringing the good stuff!”
Antoine, a majestic French orange cat sporting a jaunty purple beret, looked up, a string of melted cheese dangling from his whiskers. “Oui oui, mon ami! As long as zey 'ave room for ze extra-large pepperoni, I am zere!” He purred, already dreaming of pizza-fueled aerials.
The sky over the Appalachians didn’t just brighten; it ripped open in a swirl of neon violet and chrome. Danker was messing with the settings on the casimir flux regulators’ output which had their ship looking less like a saucer and more like a giant, flying glass bong crossed with a 1970s shag carpeted van. They descended silently, hovering just inches above the pine needles.
The hatch hissed open, releasing a pressurized cloud of sweet smelling fog. Danker and Ziporg tumbled out, their spindly alien limbs moving in a loose, rubbery rhythm.
“Willy! The Tarsier of the Hour!” Danker hollered, giving Willy a high-five that nearly knocked his hat off.
“Easy on the merchandise, boys,” Willy laughed, hoisting his custom carbon-fiber snowboard. “And don’t worry about the supplies. As the official Guardian of the Cannabotanical Gardens, I brought some of the ‘Solar Flare’ harvest. This stuff will have you hearing colors that don’t even exist yet.”
They tossed the gear into the cargo hold, which was already cluttered with empty pizza boxes and glowing alien snacks that looked like neon Cheetos. Antoine strutted up the ramp, his purple beret tilted at a grumpy angle.
“Is zere no valet?” Antoine muttered, pausing to sniff a piece of alien technology. “Zis ship smells like wet dog and cheap ozone. And my tail! Ze static electricity in here is ruining my silhouette! My whiskers are tingling in a most undignified fashion!”
“Yeah, yeah, Antoine. Keep your beret on,” Willy said, patting the cat’s orange fur as the hatch sealed shut.
As the ship cleared the Earth’s atmosphere in a blink, Ziporg fired up the “Day-Strain” vaporizer, a smooth, citrusy blend bred for high-altitude energy. They sat in the lounge area, which featured a floor made of liquid light that rippled whenever they moved.
“So,” Ziporg said, his three eyes blinking in sequence as he took a pull of the Solar Flare. “Tell us about these Himalayas. Are they truly as ‘gnarly’ as the intergalactic forums say?”
“Gnarlier,” Willy said, his eyes wide and glowing as the ship’s HUD began tracking the jagged, snow-capped peaks of Nepal.
Antoine let out a massive, pepperoni scented belch that echoed through the cabin. “I 'ope ze snow is not too cold,” the cat grumbled, settling into a plush pilot’s chair. “My paws are very sensitive, and if ze pizza delivery drones cannot find us at 20,000 feet, I shall be writing a very stern review of zis entire dimension.”
Danker and Ziporg just shared a look and started “cutting up,” rolling around on the light-floor, laughing at the way Antoine’s tail puffed up every time the ship hit a pocket of cosmic turbulence.
As they drew near the spaceship hummed, a comfortable thrum against the vast silence of space, even as the jagged, snow-capped giants of the Himalayas filled the panoramic viewscreen. Inside, the pre-skiing chaos was in full swing.
Willy, goggles firmly in place over his wide tarsier eyes, was practically vibrating with excitement. He adjusted the straps on his tiny snowboard, letting out a whoop as Ziporg, still a bit wobbly from the Solar Flare, tumbled across the plush carpeted floor, giggling uncontrollably. Danker, meanwhile, was already strapped into his skis, hovering upside down near the ceiling, practicing some zero-gravity aerials. “Alright, Willy, my brother from another dimension! You ready to hit these interstellar slopes?” he chuckled, his alien eyes gleaming.
Antoine, however, was having none of it. He sat regally atop a precarious stack of pizza boxes, a protective paw resting on the top one. “Zis is ridiculous! Ze altitude, ze cold, ze sheer lack of proper espresso!” he griped, his purple beret askew. “And ze Abominable Snow Dude! What if he tries to steal ze pepperoni? Someone must protect ze cargo!” He eyed the mountains with deep suspicion, clearly deciding that pizza-guard duty was far more vital than shredding.
“Don’t worry, Antoine, we’ll bring you back a snow cone!” Willy called back, doing a little dance on his snowboard.
With a final, hearty laugh, Ziporg hit the bright red button labeled “Hatch.” The massive cargo door at the rear of the ship began to slide open, revealing the crisp, thin air and the blinding white expanse of the Himalayan peaks. Danker, with a final, gravity-defying flip, shot out of the hatch, skis carving an impossible line against the starlit sky. “Geronimo, you cosmic shredders!” Willy yelled, pushing off with all his might. He launched himself out of the ship, his snowboard catching the air, a tiny, blue-hatted projectile against the vastness.
The moment Willy’s board touched snow, it was pure, unadulterated adrenaline. He and Danker were an alien-tarsier blur, tearing down a near-vertical face. They banked hard, kicking up rooster tails of powder that glittered like trichome dust in the faint starlight. Willy executed a flawless 360-degree spin off a jagged rock outcrop, landing cleanly and immediately launching into a series of lightning-fast S-turns. Danker, not to be outdone, performed an impossible, corkscrewing aerial maneuver, briefly seeming to defy the laws of physics before carving back alongside Willy. They were a symphony of hardcore, gravity-defying skiing, a testament to intergalactic friendship and top-shelf dank, mostly top shelf dank. They hit every jump, every kicker, every drop with reckless abandon, laughing their heads off as they went.
Back in the ship, Antoine grumbled, “Tarsiers and Aliens… always ze drama. At least ze pizza is safe.” He sniffed a slice, content in his vital role.
The final vertical drop was a white-knuckle blur of speed that ended in a massive, powdery crater right at the edge of the treeline. Willy and Danker skidded to a halt, snow-caked and breathless, their lungs burning with that sweet, thin Himalayan air.
“Man, Danker, did you see that 710 you pulled off the glacier?” Willy panted, adjusting his gold-cursive hat.
“I saw stars, Willy! Literally!” Danker laughed, his alien skin glowing a faint neon green from the adrenaline.
As the snow dust settled, a strange, golden-green light caught Willy’s enormous eyes. Tucked into a sheltered rocky alcove, protected from the biting winds, sat a plant that looked like it belonged in a temple. It was massive, with thick, resinous buds that shimmered like frosted emeralds and smelled like sandalwood, temple incense, and fresh rain.
“Great Galactic Grass…” Ziporg whispered over the comms from the ship. “What is *that*?”
Willy scrambled over, pulling his Pocket Strain Identifier from his utility belt. He scanned a leaf. The screen whirred, lights flashing yellow, then red, before finally settling on a pulsing purple text: [RESULT: UNKNOWN - 0% MATCH IN INTERGALACTIC DATABASE].
“A landrace,” Willy breathed, his whiskers twitching. “Pure, untouched, and undiscovered. We’ll call her Himalayan Mountain Mama.”
Willy carefully harvested a choice nug and popped it into his DHV (Digital Harvest Vaporizer). The machine hummed at a high frequency zzzzzt-pop!—instantly flash-drying and curing the flower to its peak potency.
Back on the ship, the tractor beam engaged, snatching Willy and Danker off the snow and depositing them right back into the lounge. Antoine didn’t even look up from his pizza box. “You are back. Good. I have defended ze stuffed crust from a particularly aggressive looking cloud.”
Willy ignored the cat’s grumbling and passed the DHV to Danker. “First taste goes to the guest of honor.”
Danker took a long, smooth pull. For three seconds, he went completely stiff. Then whispered “Everything… is vibrating”, as his eyes started rotating in opposite directions and a massive, slow-motion grin spread across his face.
“Willy…” he whispered, “I think I can hear the mountains… and they’re humming show tunes from Vegas!”
The transition was seamless. As the hatch hissed open and the freezing Himalayan air rushed in, the psychic Vegas lounge vibes vanished, replaced by the thunderous, technical precision of Rush. The opening chords of “A Passage to Bangkok” didn’t just play; they vibrated the very molecules of the ship.
“Sweet Saturn’s rings, this track is heavy!” Danker yelled over the music, his skis already teetering over the edge of the North Face.
“It’s the Mountain Mama, man! She knows when it’s time to get serious!” Willy hollered back. He slammed his goggles down, his golden cursive lettering on his hat glinting in the high-altitude sun. “Let’s find that ‘sweet satisfaction’ they’re singing about! Dropping in 3… 2… 1… SHRED!”
They didn’t just ski; they attacked the mountain. The North Face was a near-vertical wall of blue ice and treacherous powder, but with the prog-rock rhythm pumping through their veins, Willy and Danker moved like liquid.
Willy was a blur of blue and brown, pinning it straight down a 60 degree chute, catching air off a massive wind-lip and pulling a 720 Mute Grab that lasted through an entire drum fill. Danker was right on his tail, his alien physiology allowing him to lean into turns so sharp they should have snapped his knees, carving arcs that looked like neon signatures on the snow.
They hit a massive natural kicker at the base of the “Death Zone.” Willy launched into the sky, the mountains below him looking like tiny white teeth. In the silence of the air, the lyrics “Our first stop is in Bogotá…” echoed in his head before he stomped the landing with a heavy thud-crunch in the deep powder.
Back in the ship, the “G-force” of their turns was so intense it sent Antoine’s pizza boxes sliding across the floor.
“Mon Dieu!” Antoine shrieked, claws out and dug in to anchor himself to the pepperoni stuffed crust. “Zis music! It is too many notes! Why must ze drums be so complicated?! “Ça me fait virer capot! Ça fait glisser mon fromage d’sur mon biscuit!”! Ziporg, stabilize zis bucket of bolts before I lose ze anchovies!”
Ziporg, however, was busy playing air-drums on the control console, his three eyes closed in rhythmic bliss. “Can’t talk, Antoine! I’m in the pocket! The mountain is a percussion instrument!”
Willy and Danker reached the bottom of the run in record time, leaving a trail of “Himalayan Mountain Mama” smoke and carved-up ice in their wake. They stood at the bottom, looking up at the impossible line they just rode.
Danker’s chest heaved, his lungs burning with that thin, crystalline Himalayan air. His body vibrating, not from the cold, but from the raw adrenaline surging through him like a live wire. Shaking, he leaned his weight onto his poles and again looked back at the jagged vertical line they’d just carved into the sky. He reached out a gloved hand for a fist bump, his voice raspy but triumphant:
“We really ate that, Willy! Bro… the aura on that descent? Infinite.”
The ship descended one last time, the tractor beam pulling Willy and Danker back into the hazy, pizza-scented warmth of the lounge. Before the hatch could even fully seal, Willy pulled out a specialized glass vial and carefully tucked away a pristine tissue sample of the Himalayan Mountain Mama. He gave the vial a little pat—the Cannabotanical Gardens were about to get a whole lot more legendary with this landrace addition.
“Alright, boys, the North Face has been conquered and the harvest is secured,” Willy announced, tipping his blue hat back as he hopped onto his stool. “Set the coordinates for the Appalachian foothills. Let’s take this party back to the cabin!”
Ziporg slammed the hyperdrive lever, and the jagged peaks of Nepal smeared into a kaleidoscope of light. As they coasted through the stars, the heavy Rush tracks faded into a mellow, groovy bassline. Danker and Ziporg were back on the floor, doing low-gravity “worm” dances and laughing about the time Danker almost took out a mountain goat at Mach 1.
Antoine, seeing the “Home” lights blinking on the console, finally let out a sigh of relief. He sat atop his remaining pile of pizza boxes like a king on a throne, his purple beret finally straightened. “Enfin! If I see one more snowflake, I shall shed my fur in protest. Back to ze cabin, where ze only ‘vertical drops’ are ze ones I make from ze sofa to ze floor.” He nudged a lukewarm slice toward Willy with a paw. “Eat, mon ami. You look like you 'ave wrestled a blizzard.”
By the time the ship touched down in the familiar, misty woods of the Appalachian mountains, the sun was just starting to peek over the ridges. They piled out of the ship, gear in hand, feeling that perfect mix of exhausted and electrified. The cabin was waiting, the fire was ready to be lit, and they had a fresh batch of Mountain Mama to properly analyze in the comfort of a home-turf session.
Inside his hidden laboratory, Willy works with surgeon-like precision, his large tarsier eyes focused as he places the Himalayan Mountain Mama tissue into a glowing green petri dish. He gives the glass a quick wink, knowing that in a few weeks, the Appalachian air is going to be smelling like Vegas show tunes and high-altitude magic.
Out in the main room, the fire is roaring. Danker and Ziporg are sprawled out on the rug, still trying to mimic the drum fills from “A Passage to Bangkok” on empty pizza boxes. Antoine, finally at peace, is curled up on a velvet cushion with his purple beret over his eyes, snoring softly while hugging the last remaining slice of pepperoni.
Beyond the frost edged glass of the cabin window, the view climbs away from the warmth, rising through the misty Blue Ridge loblolly pines and into the cold mountain air. High above the treeline, what looked like a stationary, oversized star suddenly flickers and ignites. The air in the cabin thins and crackles as the auto-return engages, pulling Ziporg and Danker into the glow. With a silent surge, the ship rips back into the stratosphere, leaving only a shimmering trail and the fading echo of laughter behind.
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Good morning Willy
Good episode, got pizza and weed, no place like earth
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