Don’t Invite Me to Dab and Then Hand Me a War Relic

By OG Strain

There is a universal experience in cannabis culture that nobody talks about enough—probably because it hurts too much.

It starts innocent.
Peaceful.
Joyful.

You’re hanging out, laughing, vibing, talking weed like civilized adults. Then someone casually drops the words that make every terp lover’s heart flutter:

“Yo… you wanna do a dab?”

Now hold on.
Let’s pause right there.

Because when I hear that, my soul prepares itself. My taste buds stand at attention. I’m expecting flavor. Terpenes. A moment. A ceremony. Dabbing isn’t just consumption—it’s an event. It’s why concentrates exist. Nobody is dabbing to not taste anything. That’s insane behavior.

So naturally, I say yes.

Then… they walk away.

They come back.

And suddenly I’m staring at a dab rig that looks like it was used to summon demons in 2017 and never recovered.

A banger so chazzed it has layers. Geological layers. Archaeologists could carbon-date the scorch marks. I’ve seen barbecue grills cleaner than this thing. I’m not even sure it’s quartz anymore. It might be obsidian. Or a cursed artifact.

And just like that—the dream dies.

See, here’s the thing people forget:
Most concentrates are sitting at 4% terpenes or more. That’s the entire point. Dabbing is about flavor. If flower is a good song on the radio, dabs are the live concert with surround sound.

So what exactly are you tasting through a blackened, burnt, traumatized banger?

Because it’s not limonene.
It’s not gas.
It’s not fruit.

It’s burnt disappointment with notes of ashtray and poor life choices.

And what really sends me spiraling is this:
How is it 2026, and some of y’all still act like cleaning a banger is advanced rocket science?

A four-dollar box of Q-tips.
A bottle of 91% isopropyl alcohol.
Thirty seconds. Maybe forty if you’re high-high.

That’s it.

Dip. Swab. Respect the glass. Move on with your life.

I’ve had the same banger for over a year. It still looks brand new. Why? Because I clean it like a grown adult who understands that flavor is sacred. And yes, most of my glass has been budget glass—but I take care of it. That way, when I upgrade to quality American-made pieces, I already know how to treat them properly.

And trust me, that upgrade is coming. I need to link up with Paul Vidal at Goats of Glass, because I want rigs that perform. I want American-made glass. I want my terp pearls spinning like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. I want heat retention, flavor preservation, glow-in-the-dark wizardry—whatever they’re cooking up these days.

But here’s the part that needs to be said clearly, loudly, and for everyone:

If you are going to bring up dabs…
If you are going to offer dab hits…
If you are going to present yourself as “the dab person” in the room…

Your rig cannot look like it survived a house fire.

That’s not an invitation. That’s a warning.

Look, I’m a nice guy. I don’t yell at people. I don’t flip tables. But inside? Inside I am screaming. Because nothing hurts more than getting hyped for a dab and realizing you’re about to run premium terpenes through a flavor-murdering crime scene.

And before anyone says, “Well, it still gets you high”—
Congratulations. So does eating food off a dirty plate. That doesn’t mean you should do it.

So please—this is my public service announcement:

If you refuse to clean your banger…
If you refuse to clean your rig…
If you insist on living that chazzed-up lifestyle…

Stop offering people dab hits.

Keep that situation private.
Handle that at home.
Do not involve guests.

Because when you ask someone if they want a dab, you’re not just offering THC—you’re offering an experience. And if that experience includes burnt quartz, dead terps, and sadness?

That’s not hospitality.
That’s chaos.

And as OG Strain, I cannot—and will not—stand for it.