Farewell, Old-School Pot Dealer

By Bill Maher

In America, marijuana legalization marches on and is causing an Acapulco gold rush. In Colorado - which legalized recreational use in January - things are booming, from weed sales to weed growing to weed tourism. The state's governor estimated that their marijuana industry could reach $1 billion in sales in the next fiscal year. Good news for most stoners. Bad news for one stoner in particular - your friendly neighborhood weed dealer. 

Remember your old pot dealer? The white dude with dreads and a dog named Ganja. A dash of hippie, a dash of creepy. The guy fluent in surfer-speak who added extra vowels to every syllable: "Nooo proooblem, Duuude." His car reeked of patchouli oil and even his B.O. smelled like weed. Always late, rarely reliable, but a pioneer in the ongoing fight for marijuana legalization. Your old-school weed dealer was the original small business owner. He was "Joe, the Stoner," and he was always there for you. Except when he was snowboarding.

All you had to do was call his beeper, and when he'd hit you back, discreetly place your order: "Two 'green' lighters." He'd say, "Be there in a half hour, brooo..." and show up about two hours later. It was a simpler time when there were only two strains of weed: paraquat tainted and non-paraquat tainted. In order to score your dope, you had to hang out with your dealer and listen to his 45-minute story about why he's never going back to Coachella. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Drugs plus no shade equals bummer. Now make with the weed." 

So, farewell old-school pot dealer. I'll never forget the good times we had at that IHOP where we used to meet. I'll miss you, but most of all, I'll miss your skanky girlfriend.