Disclaimer: The content in this article is not intended to endorse or encourage the purchase, use, or distribution of illegal substances. All anecdotes are intended for entertainment purposes only. Always make informed and responsible decisions about substance use, and seek professional help if needed. Identifying details have been changed to protect reviewer and dealers’ anonymity.
Last year, The Great Critic Drug Review by Boba Ket wasn’t just popular — it was voted the most popular article of the year in the 2024 Critic census. Otago’s biggest drug connoisseur, Boba, risked life and brain cells to give students the inside scoop on which drug combos were whack and which will keep you out of Student Health. The piece spread like scabies. People were citing Boba’s takes in casual conversation, reconsidering their acid trip plans, and an ODT reporter even reached out to comment on how “er, interesting…” they’d found it.
Given Boba’s cultural impact, the pressure was high to deliver on this year’s drug themed issue. This got Critic thinking: the high is just one half of the drug-taking experience. The other half? Getting the goods. Before you even touch a tab, pack a cone, or rack a line, you have to meet a dealer. And that means crossing paths with some, er, interesting… characters.
And so, Critic Te Ārohi proudly presents: The Great Critic Drug Dealer Review. Stay tuned for a twist at the end.
Broseph
By Green Latifa
I don’t know why, but I was a super mega baby about buying weed for ages. I didn’t know any dealers and, before I connected with Broseph, I used to get my green by proxy. This meant a lot of sidling up to my smoking friends with a: “Can you pick up for me too on your next run? Promise I’ll pay you back.” Not particularly charming nor effective. While I was suffering from migraines, my partner acted as my middleman-green fairy, sourcing when my pain flared up or I just wanted to check the fuck out. I always knew someone who knew someone, but knew no one, y’know?
That is, until I was put in touch with Broseph. Oh, Broseph; the normally grating Snapchat notification sound of adding me back sounded like the trumpets of heaven above. Your fugly avatar is in the image of a saint beholden to mine eyes – I burn effigies to thee with a Bic and suck them down through the resin-blackened stem greedily. I was high as tits writing this. ‘Tis some good shit.
This particular batch is recent, actually. I noticed my stash was low earlier, picked up the phone, and Broseph had a Snap story up offering. Mean. I sent a message and then got distracted doing chores, only to later see that Broseph had replied right away (points for punctuality, punctual stoners are a rare yet sacred breed). I sussed a lift to his place (he does pick-up only, which works for me. I could walk, but ceebs) and maneuvered some cash up into my sleeve, because of fucking course I did. I call the process of picking up weed “going to the Marijuana Store.” To be cringe is to be free and, in Broseph’s case, a storefront is exactly what his place feels like. Gloriously efficient. As impersonal as desired. Just with a lot more bong ash outside. Sometimes, I can giggle and chat, maybe get a free cone or three (good lad never drains my fid). Other times it’s a: “Yeah, I’m doing good, thanks. And you? Sick, catch ya.” I have optimised the process to a seven minute round trip, if need be – and often, do-be.
As a non-driver, I respect that Broseph doesn’t drive. But as a non-driver-slash-stoner, I wish that man could drive. Picking up from his window is basically a quasi-drive-thru experience. I’ve even ‘ordered’ from the car at the foot of the drive before walking up to the window for pickup. I’m lovin’ it.
This time around, I took the efficient route. I strode up Broseph’s driveway, barely even pausing to admire the view. It had just rained and was starting to spit – perfect weather for avoiding small talk. Broseph propped open his bedroom window, and in a fluid motion spanning generations, cash was exchanged for drugs. “Talk later,” I muttered, vaguely motioning upward before scurrying off through the rain with my precious bounty.
Size: Remarkably consistent fids, packed to the brim and, I assume, weighed. I’m trusting that they’re weighed out. To what weight? Regular, I hope, though I can never be sure. I haven’t felt brave enough to buy drug scales to check, because what if I’ve been getting ripped off this whole time? I doubt it, but I have to admit there’s a Schrödinger’s stoner thing going on.
Quality: Real fucking good, really fucking consistently, which is why I don’t get mad about the size (yeah, I know, shut up). No stems, no seeds, super dense bud. It takes a lot to put me under and I’m never disappointed.
Ethics: Pretty solid, as far as drug dealers go. He doesn’t deal party drugs (which is where things get dicey), just weed and the occasional shrooms. Broseph’s always stocked up – he got into the biz sourcing weed for his ailing dad, who he takes care of. Ethically, that’s pretty freaking cool.
Star rating: Five stars, Broseph, and I dunno – want a blue V as a tip? I think I have a cool keychain that you can have if you want.
Stoner Next Door
By John F Cannabis Jr
When I was little, I believed neighbours brought you baking when you first moved in (or fruitcake if The Sims was anything to go by). Instead, my first adult-neighbour brought me a fid. Having a constant supply of drugs from right across the road will eventually hammer in the idea of “everything is good in moderation”, but the sentiment really didn’t click for me until I’d moved away. For now, I was high most evenings on every strain of God’s wonderfully green Earth: medical, indica, sativa, Mango Kush, and even some weed that had somehow been bred to be purple.
I dunno what the fuck was going on but this guy showered my flat with free vapes (including a weed vape – a “dried herb vaporiser”) and took us out on a party bus one time with a bunch of randoms. He wasn’t the most reliable of dealers, often leaving us on delivered (sometimes I would take matters into my own hands and knock on his window), but I ended up on decks on a fucking party bus due to this guy. The Instagram stories went hard. He even let me trade some of my dad’s codeine for a fid. Writing about it now, I do think my flat may have gotten slightly played, because we bought so much shit from this guy. In fact, we’d become such loyal buyers that he was probably reimbursed for the vapes and bus trip. I’d even tip him $10 if I was feeling it.
Size: Decent, but depended on the mood he was in (aka what cocktail of substances he’d taken).
Quality: No complaints – but then, I don’t have much else to compare it to.
Ethics: Couldn’t say. He kept pretty tight-lipped given I write for Critic. Guess it paid off.
Star rating: Couldn’t rate my stoner-daddy any lower than a four and a half – great kush, sick deals, good cunt.
Green Doctors
By Se$ha
I’ve been a legal consumer of medical marijuana for almost a year now. There are lots of clinics, and I myself go to the Green Doctors. I say “go” but they’re based in Auckland and operate primarily over phone or video consult. So, I get my weed couriered to my doorstep, wrapped in bubble wrap like it’s a fragile antique. And I fucking love it. No shame, no paranoia – just the system looking at my chronic illness and going, “Fuck that sucks, have some otherwise-illegal drugs.” Small-talking to dealers is also the last thing I want to do when I’m keeled over in a ball. Limping to a drug dealer’s house feels like ass. Picking up weed from the University Bookshop when you miss your delivery is weird, but preferable.
I got in touch with my Doctor-dealer with a form, some paperwork, and a short phone appointment. I confessed that weed I’d illegally bought from someone who may or may not have been my cousin had helped me before. My doctor was basically like, “Hell yeah, brother!”.
Weed is still criminalised, but as of 2020’s Medical Cannabis Scheme, it is legal to consume Pharmac-approved products with a valid prescription. Once you go legal, there’s way more products to experiment with, from CBD oils to balanced flowers for teas. I have severe PTSD, scoliosis, endometriosis, among other conditions. As I sat down to write this, my left ribs decided to slip out of place – a common occurrence. Loading up my doctor’s supply in a bong hit (my medicinal vaporise broke, I swear) allows me to finally breathe (and cough my lungs out).
A mild body high works better than the heavy painkillers I used to be on. Codeine blows, and while opioids do work, I appreciate functional bowels. Medicinal weed makes my body-mind connection so dialled I can pinpoint pain spots, massage them out, or even do a bit of trauma work. It clears some space in my brain – a couple of blissful hours where I know my body won’t break or get ambushed by intrusive thoughts.
The range of Pharmac products, combined with Green Doctor’s discretion, means you can tailor your stash exactly how you want. I keep an emergency "holy fuck I'm dying" prescription (22% THC, indica, etc.) but I mostly stick to the cruisy low-THC, balanced CBD stuff. When my doctor prescribed it, he said it was so mild you could take a dose in the morning and go to work just fine. And lord knows I do. My handwriting on the Critic whiteboard gets a little worse on those days, especially if I overdo it, but hey – it all comes out in the wash. Aside from that one time I used a permanent marker by accident.
Size: Basically only sold by the ounce, but yeaboi.
Quality: The poetry of numbers renders words redundant: Tilray whole flower, indica, 22% THC (<1% CBD), 15g Equiposa whole flower, sativa, 9.0% THC, 8.3% CBD, 15g
Ethics: Green Doctors have been super kind, which can be rare when talking to medical professionals while disabled. They try to keep it as affordable and accessible as possible. Shame it’s not legal otherwise, but not their fault.
Star rating: Four and a half stars. Legal weed’s still not quite cheap enough to undercut street prices sufficiently, but we’re getting there.
Drone-dude
By Sir Smokes-a-Lot
You know how in America you can get same-day Amazon deliveries? Some cracked supply chain magic lets them grab your order from a warehouse the size of a small country, strap it to some buzzy (heh)-looking drone, and drop it at your doorstep within hours. I figured it’d take decades for New Zealand to catch up, but my dealer? My dealer is trailblazing.
Picture this: exams are done, I’m up North, the weather’s actually decent for once. What’s the plan? Get perma-fried all summer, of course, and blend my brain into 2025.
Naturally, I hit up my home dealer. This guy’s been hustling since high school. Dropped out in Year 12, still lives with his parents, and the only real job he’s ever worked was pizza delivery. I have no idea how he does it (pretty sure he tells his parents he’s a day trader or something), but let me tell you – this man’s delivery game has leveled up since his Domino’s days.
I flick him a message, and he hits me back with: “On the drops.” It’s a perfect scenario, because (a) if you’re cool with a walk, you’re not a real stoner, and (b) if you’re sober enough to drive to pick up, you’re definitely not a real stoner. But when he meant drops, I thought my dealer would pull up in his Toyota Altezza. Instead, he told me he dropped by drone. I called cap. Bro was not capping.
This absolute visionary flies the fid right to my street. And I kid you not, he sends me a photo of where he dropped the bag. It was genuinely like Uber Eats – the only thing missing was a 5-star rating and a tip option.
I abused this revolutionary service all summer. Never had to walk more than a few metres, and no awkward small talk about people from our school I barely spoke to, who are somehow already having babies. The only downside? The drone can’t fly in the rain. Fix that, and we’re in a golden age.
Dunedin dealers, I need y’all to step up. Innovation is moving at light speed, and you’re still out here ghosting people and selling 2g fids.
Size: He’s an OG. My man would never skimp out on me.
Quality: I’ve had some Oregano bullshit before. This stuff gets me cooking.
Ethics: He’s faster, more efficient and forces better service out of all our drug dealers. If that’s not ethical, I don’t know what is.
Star rating: 6 stars if possible. Man's revolutionising the game faster than Jeff Bezos on crack. If all dealers went drone, the world would be a better place. The only reason I’d ever move back home, tbh.
Bro with Kids
By Emily Blunt
You’ve heard, as I have, never to buy drugs from a man in a white van. But what if I told you it was silver and you get to pet dogs while casually sliding a fifty through the window?
I was first introduced to Bro with Kids in my first year, by the first friend I made at uni no less. An epoch of firsts (some of them), if you like. I was given no description other than “he looks like a father of three,” and, if I was lucky, I would meet a furry fellow or two (dogs, you freak). I messaged him and eagerly waited for a response – which, surprisingly, I got within the same minute. Bro with Kids may be punctual, but it’s not his punctuality you have to worry about. It. rly wthr nt. u cn read his txt rt.
After munching down a dining hall dinner and chucking on my puffer, I made my way to a side street stupidly close to my hall of residence and waited, shivering while clutching a fifty in my hand. It wasn’t too long before the man tore up the steep, tree-lined hill in his van, and greeted me with his typical: “Hey mate.” After our initial meeting, and a wonderfully citrusy batch of the fun stuff, I knew that he and I would be good friends. I’ve invited him in for a drink before, though he politely declined as he wished to stay on the ball while doing deliveries (sober king). He seemed like the kind of bearded man that I would trust to make me a sofa bed if I greened out, blow out the candle and shut the door softly behind him as he continued on his merry way for the evening.
If you’re geeky with your green, Bro with Kids isn’t for you. No fancy strain names or Rick and Morty baggies here – though, I suppose I’ve never really asked what his stuff’s called. His style isn’t anything extravagant, and you probably won’t become besties. But if you want a dependable dealer and some yummy weed, he’s your man.
Size: What you’ll receive is your average fid. Not too big, not too small, but just right. Who doesn’t want a generous portion of porridge?
Quality: Nothing to write home about, but like your dad with a day off and a toolbox it gets the job done.
Ethics: Can someone be considered a bad person if they’re a dog lover? Especially when you can tell they definitely let them sleep on the pillow? Yes, they definitely can be. But this dude’s heart seems pure.
Star rating: Would’ve said four stars, but after finding out there’s a drone-dropping dealer out there, Bro’s rating drops down to a bang-average three.
Friend of a friend
By Stoney Daniels
I love 21sts for many reasons – the free food, the declarations of platonic love through the speeches, and meeting people from all aspects of the birthday person's life. After meeting my would-be drug dealer at my best friend’s 21st (they were childhood besties) I’ll add “underground networking” to the list.
After our initial meet-cute, the arrangement continued via Snapchat (classic) where I could hit her up during my last class of the day and pop by their flat on my walk home to grab the goodies. This shit would get me so fucked up I was often a one-cone-wonder, spending the evening melting into my couch. My dealer is a Snap fiend, and based on the pet her bitmoji has next to them on maps I’m going to guess she’s a Snapchat premium user (can this be claimed back as a business expense?). This made her punctual, though I was probably half-swiped a handful of times.
Honestly, I respected her game. I knew she was studying a business-related degree (the worst) so I guess she probably had a SWOT analysis written up and a marketing plan in full force. Given her major, it should come as no surprise that the chat would often revolve around interesting things happening in Elon Musk's life.
Size: Not huge, but power made up for it.
Quality: They say the stickier the better, and with this bud I’m like Pooh with a honeypot
Ethics: Er, how ethical can being a drug dealer really be?
Star rating: Three and a half stars – convenient and yummy, but points deducted for suspected swipes and dry chat
My RA
By Kim Bong Un
I’ve had many a dealer in my time. Back home there was just about always a tinny or fid that could be bought, whether it was the shady senior from my high school, or the guy that had more piercings in his face than spots on a Dalmatian. But moving to Dunners, I left those connections behind me.
I bounced around a few people, buying around, never really settling down and finding the one. The dealers in Dunners often left me underwhelmed, not fulfilling my desires. Fresher me was getting ghosted and snuffed with 2g fids. I started to think maybe I was the problem. I’d started to lose hope. That is until that one fateful day I had cones with my RA.
My RA began as any other RA does: a friendly, sensible dude. He found out that I smoked over a random convo about the best places we have had cones (Signal Hill goes pretty hard). While he was on duty, he’d see me and the bros going out for a bong and give us the nod. It was only fate we’d do it together, one day. I always thought that it would be after we left the hall, cos duh. That is until I got the cheeky “come to my room x” text.
The first time we smoked together, we used a pipe. Not my go-to, but I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to smoke with my RA. So I rolled with it. We leaned out the window, took a few hits, and I got fucking blazed. I wanted what this dude was smoking, because the separation between me and his bed did not exist.
Over time, my RA got a scope of how many people smoked at my hall. He’d always see people leave and come back with their hoods up or an ice cream from the mandatory Rob-Roy munchies mish. Not one to pass up a business opportunity, he bought a fuck-tonne of buds off the black market and began dealing from his room. “Anyone you know that smokes, send them my way,” he’d tell me. I remember thinking, “Fuck this dude could get in some serious trouble.” But then there was an offer of discounts for referrals, so “lol never mind” followed.
My RA gave me some of the phattest scores I’ve had in my life. I once got a 5g fid. And a 7g for $65. Definition of mates’ rates. Sure, it was stupid as fuck. If he got caught he would have been fired, losing both his home and his job, not to mention the hall’s no drug policy which would see him kicked out of university. Thankfully, he never got caught. This was four years ago. I still think about him to this day.
Size: As mentioned – PHAT
Quality: Fucking great to be fair, the cherry on top of the convenient pie
Ethics: Plug for a mate, good cunt. Plug for your residents, what the fuck?
Star rating: He got away with it. Five stars, credit is due.
The Verdict: By Boba Ket
It’s Boba, baby; I’m back.
If you don’t know me, I reviewed drugs last year for Critic and people rated it (thanks for the love). Since then, I’ve done a few more drugs. Mainly ketamine, it’s been super horsey (hah). But I’ve cut down a bit, so I haven’t smashed enough to write another full review. We’ll get there eventually. Just maybe not the Jedi flips.
Drug dealers are, in my opinion, the most underrated aspect of the drug-smashing process. There’s something so pure about a first-time drug deal. It’s the only natural high (adrenaline) in the process. I’ve never had an experience with a drug dealer (except the one that gave me laced bud, but they were a good cunt about it and gave me a free bag after). There’s downsides to handing dealers cash to fry your brain, but you gain a lot of perspective on life too. You realise the important things (drugs are fun) and discard the unimportant things (Uni readings). Just kidding.
These reviews show that you shouldn't underestimate dealers. Some of these guys are playing 4D chess. I mean, becoming an RA to gain clientele? Brother, that's genius. Becoming a doctor just so you can sell buds legally? Seven years of med school is pretty intense, but shit, I respect it. And finally.... drone drops? This dude is living in 2040. I can see the future already. Drone cops raiding drug deals over our heads. The real war on drugs will be fought with Wifi signals.
If anything, these reviews highlight the (illicit) connections that substances create. When you’re tweaking out with other people, there’s no social etiquette holding you back. It’s just vibes. I love a good tear-down – but it’s no accident the reviews are generally positive. Everyone rates their dealer (or maybe no one sticks with a shit one).
Either way, I’m going to end this with a pledge: here’s to our dealers. Where would we be on Hyde Street without them? 2025 is the year of appreciating your plug. They (mostly) show up when you need them, provide a quality service, and make after cones possible. I won’t write to you in jail, but I will dap you up and pretend to be interested in your “rare import” that’s probs cut with Raro.
Chur,
Boba Ket.