This Eighth Failed More Tests Than I Did in High School
By Boof du Jour Field Correspondent, Reporting Live from the Backseat of a Hertz Rental That Smells Like Pine-Sol and Trauma
I started this journey with a simple question: What the fuck is in this weed? Four ounces, five states, and six personality changes later, I still don’t know.
Armed with the same eighth of flower—a “gassy hybrid” from a well-known California brand I won’t name (but rhymes with Murkle Pood)—I set out to test it across the country. The idea was to see if the numbers matched up. THC percentage, terpenes, mold, you know, the lies we call science.
Instead, I got a nationwide Rorschach test from the underpaid ghosts haunting America’s lab equipment. And I mean that literally—one of the labs in New Mexico was operating out of a defunct tanning salon and offered to test my urine “just for fun.”
STOP ONE: CALIFORNIA
Label THC: 28.2%
Lab Result: 31.7%
Staff Comment: “That’s a banger.”
California greeted me with the warmth of a DMV clerk on mushrooms. The lab tech said the reading was “a little high, but that’s what people want.” I asked about the mold threshold. He winked and said, “We use the Oregon standard.” That cleared up nothing and somehow made me more concerned.
STOP TWO: ARIZONA
Lab Result: 17.3%
Mood Shift: Mild existential panic
Arizona’s lab had bulletproof glass, a single ceiling fan, and a tech who said, “You know this is mostly CBD, right?” They flagged the sample for trace metals and “possible fertilizer residue.” When I told them I bought it in California, they asked if I had a receipt or a priest. I smoked it later that night and spent two hours contemplating the concept of “regulatory frameworks” while laying face-down in a Circle K parking lot.
STOP THREE: OKLAHOMA
Lab Result: 36.9%
Terpenes Detected: All of them
Oklahoma printed out a results sheet that looked like it was generated by a slot machine. “That’s strong weed,” said the guy running the lab, who also sells pre-rolls out of his van and owns an alpaca named Nugz.
Fun fact: Oklahoma doesn’t require terpene testing, but they gave me a list anyway, including one called "Coachellene." It’s not real. They made it up. The chart had a QR code that led to a SoundCloud page.
STOP FOUR: MASSACHUSETTS
Lab Result: “Sample did not meet minimum testable quantity”
Mood Shift: Depression with notes of road salt
The lab said my eighth wasn’t enough to run a full panel, but then asked if I wanted to “just round it up to a quarter” and “get some sleep data too.” They handed me back an invoice and a pamphlet about PTSD. I never even got the results.
That night, the weed hit like Tylenol PM soaked in Merlot and regret. I passed out on my AirBnB host’s weighted blanket and dreamed that the DCC revoked my birthday.
FINAL STOP: WASHINGTON
Lab Result: THC 19.6%, “Botanical Profile: Forest Bath”
Interpretation: I had officially entered Narnia
Washington’s report came in as a full-color PDF titled “Cannabis Wellness Summary.” There were chakra symbols, a wheel of emotional effects, and a footnote that said “Tested during Mercury Retrograde.”
My weed was described as a “centered, introspective cultivar suitable for forest walks, emotional recovery, and late-stage capitalism.” I took one hit and wandered into a community drum circle where someone handed me a tincture made of tears.
CONCLUSION: NOTHING MEANS ANYTHING
I smoked the same fucking weed in five different states and got:
A panic attack
A nap
Mild spiritual healing
False hope
And a lab report that recommended I “microdose social media detoxes”
One state flagged it for heavy metals, another said it cured sleep disorders. One lab found no detectable THC, and Oklahoma’s said I needed a helmet to finish the joint.
Weed isn’t weed anymore. It’s a vibe. A marketing choice. A compliance improv scene performed under fluorescent lights by people who all failed chemistry but passed the METRC quiz.
Boof Index Conclusion:
Consumer Confidence: -42%
THC Rating: Schrödinger’s Dank
Lab Integrity: Sponsored by Adobe Illustrator
Recommendation: Smoke local, test nothing, and trust no one who describes flower as “intentional. ”
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