Daily Dabble: The Weed Fairy Exists (a.k.a. Dispensary Delivery)

There are certain moments in life when technology and humanity finally meet their peak potential. Fire gave us warmth. The wheel gave us travel. The iPhone gave us endless doomscrolling. And dispensary delivery? That gave us pure happiness in a paper bag. Entire civilizations rose and fell so that in 2025, I could sit on my couch in pajama pants, tap a screen, and thirty minutes later two dudes who look suspiciously like Cheech & Chong hand me flower at the door. Not them, but close enough. That’s progress. That’s evolution. That’s the weed fairy in action. Mary Jane doesn’t call it that. She calls it “your suspicious brown bag habit.” But she never pushes it further. She just lets the comments hang in the air like smoke.

Act I – The Buzz of Anticipation

When I was a kid, the best part of anything wasn’t the candy, the toy, or the pizza itself — it was the waiting. That electric feeling in your chest, pacing around, ears pricked for the doorbell. Now? Same thing, just with new packaging. A buzz on my phone: “Your driver is 3 stops away.” I start pacing in my slippers. Kushie parks herself at the door like she’s deputized by the DEA. Mary Jane looks up from her tea and says, “You act like you’re waiting on a Nobel Prize.” Then she goes back to her book.

Act II – First Contact with the Weed Fairy

The first time I ordered, I expected a generic driver in a hoodie. Instead, I got stoner doppelgängers straight out of central casting. One leaned on the Prius in aviators and a Hawaiian shirt, nodding like a laid-back Buddha. The other shuffled up in a knit cap and sandals, giggling at something only he could hear, lugging a brown paper bag way too big for my order. They weren’t Cheech & Chong. But if you squinted, you’d swear it was them. “Delivery for Bud, maaan,” Hawaiian Shirt said, stretching the word until it had three syllables. I froze. Kushie barked like the FBI had finally cracked me. Mary Jane glanced over the top of her book, took in the scene, and muttered, “Of course.” Then she turned a page. I grabbed the bag, muttered thanks, and bolted inside while the two laughed their asses off on the porch.

Act III – The Pants-Free Revolution

Dispensary delivery solved one of life’s most important dilemmas: pants. Before this, you had to throw on jeans, brush your hair, and risk running into your boss in line while holding a vape called Banana Cream Pie #7. Now? No pants. No shame. Just me in pajama bottoms, waiting for the knockoff Cheech & Chong express. Mary Jane caught me one night hovering near the door, slippered feet tapping like a drummer. She didn’t ask what I was doing. She just smirked and said, “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

Act IV – Paranoia at the Door

DING DONG. My heart leaps like I’ve been caught red-handed. Kushie detonates into narc mode, barking like she’s running point for a raid. I open the door to find the duo again — Hawaiian Shirt and Knit Cap, grinning like they just pulled off a heist, holding the bag between them like it’s a championship trophy. “Man, heavy one today,” Knit Cap says, his laugh bubbling up like soda. I mumble thanks, grab the bag, and shut the door. Kushie shoves her nose against it immediately, like she’s filing evidence. Mary Jane passes in the hallway with a laundry basket, glances at me, and says casually, “Amazon again?” Then she keeps walking. No follow-up. No questions. Just enough to make me sweat.

Act V – The Show at the Door

The thing about dispensary delivery is it’s never just about the bag — it’s about the show. Pizza comes in silence. Amazon gets dropped without a word. Uber Eats feels like a hostage exchange. But dispensary delivery? That’s theater. The two lookalikes show up like it’s a comedy set. One always announces, “Heavy one today, man!” while the other laughs like he’s seen God in the glovebox. Kushie barks like she’s calling for backup. Mary Jane leans against the wall on her way past and remarks, “Do they charge extra for the performance?” Then she’s gone. The clowns disappear. And I’m left clutching my prize like a nervous game show winner.

Act VI – Delivery Horror Stories

Not every show goes smoothly. There was the time the app glitched and I accidentally ordered $300 worth of edibles. Mary Jane found the receipt on the counter. She slid it toward me and said, “Please tell me these came with insulin.” Then she went back to scrolling her phone. Or the time Kushie barked so hard the driver dropped the bag and sprinted back to the Prius. Mary Jane nearly doubled over laughing. She steadied herself, handed me the bag, and said, “Careful, Scarface. Your watchdog’s too good at her job.”

Act VII – The Weed Fairy Economy

The two lookalikes aren’t just drivers. They’re stoner folklore now. Sometimes they argue in my driveway about who lost the lighter. Sometimes they sing stoner rock while I sign the receipt. One time they asked if Kushie wanted to sign.Mary Jane overheard that one. She didn’t say much. Just raised her eyebrow, muttered “She’d do a better job than you,” and went back inside.If I were in charge, I’d make Weed Fairy Day a national holiday. Floats shaped like blunts. Kushie in her DEA hat leading the parade. Mary Jane tossing gummies into the crowd like it was Mardi Gras. Hawaiian Shirt and Knit Cap waving from a smoke-trailing Prius convertible, still laughing at their own jokes.

Act VIII – Kushie the Narc, Mary Jane the Shadow Judge

Kushie might be the narc — barking, pointing, making sure the entire block knows when a bag arrives. But Mary Jane? She’s more subtle. She doesn’t accuse. She doesn’t stop me. She just lets me think I’m winning while dropping little lines that sting more than any bark. Like the time I rushed past her with the bag and she said, “At least your mystery packages make you this happy.” Or when Kushie went nuts at the door and she muttered, “Don’t worry, girl, he’ll share the alibi with you too.”. Nothing direct. Nothing explosive. Just enough to remind me she’s clocking it all.

The Firework Finale

The first puff after delivery hits different. It’s not just the weed. It’s the ritual. The anticipation. The whole circus: Kushie the narc, the comedy-club delivery duo, and Mary Jane ghosting through the background with her sly asides. I lean back, spark, and exhale. Smoke curls drift across the ceiling like fireworks. Kushie sighs at my feet, still suspicious. Madden’s ghost bellows, “BOOM! Weed fairy for the win!”. Through the haze, I hear the Prius doors slam. I peek out the blinds: the lookalikes are in the driveway, high-fiving like they just delivered joy to the whole block. Mary Jane walks back in, pauses, sniffs the air, and shakes her head. “Fantastic. My clean sheets are going to smell like your vitamins again.” Then she keeps moving, leaving me to wonder just how much she really knows.

Bud’s Final Puff of Wisdom

“They say money can’t buy happiness. But if it can buy weed delivered by two guys who look like Cheech & Chong? That’s not happiness — that’s folklore. Just remember: the wife doesn’t need to call you out. The dog already did.”