When Your Dealer Becomes Corporate: A Tragic Tale

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Once upon a time, in the hazy depths of your best (and worst) decisions, there was your dealer. Let’s call him “Steve.” Steve wasn’t a businessman—he was a dude with a duffle bag, a Nokia burner phone, and the entrepreneurial spirit of a raccoon in a dumpster. His product came in a thin, disgustingly licked, and barely sealed sandwich bag that may have recently held a bologna sandwich. His prices fluctuated depending on how much gas he needed, and his customer service? About as reliable as a dial-up connection in a thunderstorm.

Steve is dead now.

No, really. He owed money to the wrong people, or maybe he just moved to Florida to become a yoga instructor. Either way, Steve has been replaced by glossy dispensaries with customer satisfaction surveys, QR codes, and “curated cannabis experiences.” Gone are the days of sketchy backseat deals; now, you’re greeted by a receptionist named Skyler, who offers you free CBD-infused sparkling water while you wait.

Steve didn’t have sparkling water. Steve had a half-empty Gatorade bottle he used as a bong and a blunt-rolling technique that could double as a crime scene.

Steve didn’t care about branding. His inventory didn’t have names like “Galactic Mango Kush.” His pitch was, “My buddy grew this shit in his closet with mouse turds. It might be alright.” And you bought it—because you didn’t have another option. Sure, sometimes his weed tasted like Bounce dryer sheets and sometimes it came with enough stems and seeds to start a garden. But it always had character.

Now? Weed comes in vacuum-sealed jars with minimalist labels that look like they belong in a Goop ad. You don’t “buy weed” anymore; you “select a strain that aligns with your lifestyle goals.” Lifestyle goals? Steve didn’t give a shit about your lifestyle. His advice was, “Don’t smoke this shit before work unless you wanna get fired.”

Loyalty programs? Don’t get me started. “Buy nine eighths, get the tenth free!” Steve’s version of a loyalty program was showing up after you texted him “U good?” seven times in a row. His rewards system was fronting you an eighth and spending the next month reminding you that you owed him $40.

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Let’s not forget Steve’s legendary punctuality. His favorite text was “Be there in 5,” which translated to, “I’m still at Taco Bell and haven’t thought about leaving yet.” When he finally showed up in his fogged-out Civic two hours later, it wasn’t with an apology. It was with a sheepish grin, a half-lit blunt, and a casual, “Oh, man, my bad. You wanna hit this?” And somehow, all was forgiven.

Buying weed used to be a chaotic, ridiculous adventure. Sometimes you got top-shelf bud that made you question your existence; other times, you got something that tasted like burnt grass and sadness. But either way, it came with a story. Steve’s weed had a soul. Now? It’s just a product.

What we lost with Steve wasn’t just the weed—it was the chaos, the unpredictability, the absurd human connection. Steve wasn’t reliable. Or professional. Or remotely hygienic. But Steve was real. He made you laugh, made you wait, and occasionally made you want to strangle him (but you never did).

Now we have dispensaries with calming playlists, perfectly lit shelves, and budtenders who ask if you’re “vibing with this strain.” Steve didn’t need vibes. Steve was the vibe—a chaotic mix of bong water, duct tape, and late-night regrets that somehow felt authentic.

So, as we step into this brave new world of corporate cannabis, let’s spill some bongwater (not on the carpet) for the Steves of the world—their greasy sandwich bags, their blunt-stained fingers, and their uncanny ability to always be exactly 90 minutes late.

RIP Steve: 2008–2023.

Gone corporate, but still rolling in our hearts.

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