Ask a Weed Dealer #4!

by:   |   Oct 14 2014

Ask A weed Dealer_insta1

You bring them into your house, you hand over your hard-earned cash to them, and you get high with them. But how well do you really know your weed guy? Welcome to “Ask a Weed Dealer,” where we ask our friendly neighborhood marijuana peddler all the hot quezztions, and get some real-talk answers. Got some nosy-ass questions of your own? Send them to emailgrownasslady@gmail.comThe last time we checked in, our weed guy told us how much he smokes (spoiler alert: CONSTANTLY), and how to tell the difference between schwag and high-quality weed. In this episode, things are getting *heated*: our dealer tells us the story of when he got busted by the cops.

Did you ever have a close-call moment, or worry that you were going to get caught?

Actually, I was caught. It was the craziest. I was leaving a customer’s house, and he lived in a massive apartment building. The weird thing was that it didn’t have a doorman—they had, like, security guards. So I see these guards, and instead of leaving through the main door, I went through the side door. And as I walk out the door and I’m unlocking my bike, these two guys come up to me and they’re like, “Hey! What are you doing?” I was like, “I’m in there visiting my friend” and they’re like, “What friend? What’s their name?” I don’t know why I didn’t just say, “Bill!” I mean, I don’t give a fuck. But I wouldn’t say, and they were like, “What’s in your bag?” and for whatever reason I didn’t remember to be like, “No, get a warrant!” So I open it up, and they see my weed and they’re like, “Yeah, we’re gonna have to put you under arrest,” and I’m like, “FUCK!” So they cuff me, and I’m like, “Hey, what about my bicycle—can I at least lock up my bike again?” They finally say, “Look, the car’s coming—you can put your bike in the trunk.” This was back when we still had pagers, and my pager’s going off, and they’re like, “Oh man, it sounds like you’re busy.” And I’m like, “Yeah, man, all these poor stoners can’t get their weed.” So they take me in to the station and they start processing me—I get my fingerprints done. And while they’re doing this, the cop who was processing me comes over and whispers to me, “Hey man, I just wanna tell you we’re not gonna go to court, so on your day in court, you don’t have to worry about it.”

What the fuck?

Exactly! That’s what I thought, too. And after they’re done processing me, they let me go. They’re like, “We’ve gotta keep your weed” but they gave me my work phone back—they had my personal phone and my work phone—and they gave me all my money back. They didn’t send me to the Tombs downtown. Nothing.

What? When the hell did this happen?

A few years ago. It was so weird. I’ve known a few other people who’ve been busted for weed, and they spent the whole weekend in jail. But this happened to me on Saturday at 5 o’clock, and I’m not kidding—I was seriously out by 6:30. They gave me my bike back, they gave me all my shit. They gave me my money back, they gave me my work phone back. And true to their word, in court, the cops weren’t there. The judge was like, [stern voice] “Don’t do this again. We’re gonna put you on a six-month probation if we catch you again, and then you’re gonna be in REAL big trouble.” And I’m like, “Your honor, I promise I will never do this again, blah blah blah.” And that was it! The only thing I can think was that Bob Marley was smiling down upon me. I so lucked out—everyone else I’ve ever known who had this happened had spent the entire weekend in jail. But not me. Even my boss was like, “How the fuck did you do that?!!” And I was like, “Cause I’m a nice fucking guy? I don’t know.”


Got a question for our weed dealer? Send it along to!

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