The 6 Types Of Drug Dealers That Lurk In Every Town In America

I’m a smoker. I’ve been smoking pot since, well I forget, so I guess that right there should give you an indication of how long. As many of you know, acquiring marijuana can be an uphill battle, particularly if your supplier is as reliable as a netted condom. But these illusive creatures are a necessity in the Pot Ecosystem, so you’re forced to swallow your pride and sit in a Chuck E. Cheese parking lot while Daryl gets off his shift because weed > dignity, always.

And since I know my drug dealers more than I know my own parents (I never know what they’re doing in there), I’ve classified this fascinating species into the six below classifications. Please feel free to add additional ones that you can relate to in the comment section so I have something to read when I’m stoned on the toilet.

THE HYPE MAN

It’s important to be patient with this breed of dealer. You will not make the exchange without hearing a long-winded,

“My buddy, Carlos, from Cali. I told you about Carlos, right? Kid’s the MAN. Huge dick. Anyway, Carlos’ buddy Carlos, same name, weird right? Anyways, Carlos’s buddy Carlos brought this dank ass nug on his flight from Cali to Boston by shoving it up his asshole. HAHA! Crazy right?! How sweet is that? The poop particles are supposed to combine with the THC to get you SUPER HIGH. ”

Your story got a little hazy after you told me your friend has a huge dick. Kinda threw me off. Just give me the bag of poop pot and instead of $60 for the eighth, we’ll settle on $20 because sitting through that story was at least $5 of my life I’ll never get back. Oh ya, and it has shit on it.

MR. PARANOID

The unequivocal most frustrating drug dealer, because he gives you fucking instructions. This dude makes you circle the block like you’re training for the Indy 500 just because he thinks his neighbors tapped his walkie talkie. He uses code words even  though you two have never previously discussed their meanings.  It’s like bro, I’ve done exactly what you asked of me. I dressed up as a Domino’s delivery guy and even put the triangular sign on the top of my car. I bought a large pizza to “deliver” but if you think I’m actually giving you that shit, you’re delusional. This is mine for when I get the munchies from the weed you’ve made me get a part time job at Dominos for. You know how much vagina I’m sacrificing by driving around with that sign on top of my car? It’s a certified pussy repellent.

When he finally gets around to handing you the weed, his hand is shaking more than Michael J. Fox’s and his hand is so wet with sweat, you would have thought he fisted a dolphin.

This dude is an absolute last resort.

THE RICH KID

They usually go by the name of Chad, Trent, or Hunter. Most likely an only child. This guy just deals weed as an act of defiance against his parents for handing him off to the nanny for the majority of his childhood. The kind of dude that calls his mom a “bitch” and calls his dad when his account balance is low. He’s an alright guy, a part of you pities him because he’s selling weed while his dad is selling stocks on Wall Street, but what Hunter lacks in direction, he makes up for in sticky buds.

And it’s always kind of awkward when you meet him at his mansion because he instructs you to go to the front door, where you have to make pleasantries with his mother who’s watching Real Housewives and is already half in the bag from four dirty martinis. Why? Because Tuesday, that’s why. She could give a shit less if we’re going down to the basement to play Xbox or free base heroine off each others dicks, she’s just happy with the prospect that Hunter may have made a friend who could positively influence him in ways she never could.

He’ll take you down to the basement and offer you a drink from his dad’s whiskey bar that hasn’t been used in years and it’s just so pitifully obvious it was constructed solely as a dick measuring contest with his broker douchebags on Wall Street. You quickly decline the offer, asssuring him that you won’t be staying long. You’ll hear his mother, now blacked out, gossiping upstairs on the phone with one of her friends, probably named Brandi, and she’ll allude to Hunter having a “friend” over, which you’ll disagree with because friends don’t talk to friends like this:

A guy by the name of Hunter most definitely has cocaine, too. I just bought some off him.

It’s good.

It’s actually really good.

I should totally start a business.

Maybe write a book.

And call my gramma.

Shit, gramma died 10 years ago.

Use your fucking blinker, asshole!

I need more cocaine. Pick up the fucking phone, Hunter.

THE KID YOU USED TO BABYSIT

There hasn’t been one kid I used to babysit or camp council that has amounted to anything of substance. Actually, there hasn’t been one kid who has amounted to anything but substance.

It probably didn’t help mold their impressionable minds when I would take bong rips in the bathroom and when they asked what that skunky smell was, I’d tell them their was a decomposing rat carcass in the heating vent. Nothing that a pack of Dunkaroos couldn’t fix, which I bought for myself because eating Dunkaroos high is the next level of euphoria.

And sure, buying weed from a kid who once considered you a role model makes you feel like the old dude roaming the malls in his letterman jacket and stone-washed jeans trolling for underage chicks, but if I gave a shit about appearances, I wouldn’t have these bitch tits.

MR. BAD TIMING

RIP Papa.

This guy. Won’t contact you all winter break while you’re home scraping resin out of your bong looking for a cheap high, but on a Monday morning while you’re sitting in an interview, you hear your Ying Yang Twins ringtone going off indicating that Mr. Bad Timing just picked up a pound. I should have known that the term “work week” doesn’t apply to the dude who hasn’t had a gig since he intentionally dropped that piece of cast iron on his foot at the steel mill and has been living off workman’s comp and checks from his grandparents since.

Mr. Bad Timing knows that you have to play by his rules and that makes us buyers feel powerless, but no one said this industry was fair.

THE DREAMER

This dude takes one puff of mid-grade bud and suddenly thinks he has the ability to cure ALS. The only problem is that after this spurt of inspiration, he himself becomes immobile. You gotta love his enthusiasm, but you know the second he starts coming down, his thoughts are consumed with 7 Eleven taquitos and watching a Pixar movie on Blu Ray.

This may be my favorite dealer of all because he has aspirations, albeit outlandish, outside selling weed out of his grandma’s basement. Even if he never finishes that flying car or that Tarantino-esque movie he was filming on his Boost Mobile cell phone, his intentions are to make the world a better place. And I can fucks with that. As long as he keeps delivering me those headies.

Matt Keohan Avatar
Matt’s love of writing was born during a sixth grade assembly when it was announced that his essay titled “Why Drugs Are Bad” had taken first prize in D.A.R.E.’s grade-wide contest. The anti-drug people gave him a $50 savings bond for his brave contribution to crime-fighting, and upon the bond’s maturity 10 years later, he used it to buy his very first bag of marijuana.