Greetings and salutations, my esteemed readers, followers, and other innocent bystanders who've wandered into my peculiar realm of words. I bring to you a tale, compelling as a Clancy thriller, spun with the quintessential Twain sense of humor. Yet, my trusty scribes, this is no fiction!
After a momentary hiatus sprouted from an ordeal best labeled as "Seymour versus the Canine Catastrophe", here I am, fresh as a daisy and chirpy as a lark, or let's say, as melodious as one can be, considering my ripe-old age that starts at 89 and ends at infinity. Ahem!
The story of my gripping rendezvous with a most unlikely hero starts on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon. 'Trouble', my once mischievous Boston Terrier, had evidently mistaken me for the nefarious intruders he is trained to deter, procuring quite the hiccup in my thyro-epiglotticus during his unprecedented sprint into my unexpectedly non-steel net of arms. Not entirely Trouble's fault, if I may add, as I'd mistimed a swig from my undoubtedly 'adult' bottle of Cognac.
The injury, however, proved as tenacious as it was unsettling – a pain so profound, it made the aging dry rot in my basement seem like a minor case of 'ickier than one would prefer'. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, let it never be said that Seymour lacks creativity when it comes to crafting all-new adjectives.
Now, thanks to the gems of wisdom found in the Diamond K9 dog training videos, 'Trouble' has mended his ways and is lapping at my feet like the well-behaved pet he was always intended to be. A tale for another post, my inquisitive readers, I promise. Today, our spotlight is bestowed upon a humble jar of CBD cream, unlikely star of my saga, the magical elixir with a promise as charmingly convincing as the novels of Hemingway.
Named "Revitalizing Relief", this innocuous-looking jar didn't inspire an avalanche of confidence, I must admit. But, trooper that I am, I decided to apply the potion unto my injured thyro-epiglotticus, following a mosaic of arduous moments involving awkward body contortions and a dozen or so muttered oaths against Trouble's now-amusing antics.
What followed might as well be ripped out of one of those mind-boggling magical realism tales. The cream did not simply 'work' – oh no, that's far too pedestrian a term for the marvel it cooked up. This elixir, my faithful followers, practically jogged into action, fearlessly attacking the pain in my throat like a braveheart soldier wading into a battlefield. Within hours, my thyro-epiglotticus had morphed from a howling picturesque of misery to a purring epitome of comfort, it was borderline witchcraft!
Friends, take it from an elderly raconteur who has seen his share of miraculous cures and quackery. This CBD cream is the kind of ally you want stashed away in your cupboard for those distressing arch-nemesis-like injuries. It hits as smoothly as the wisest of sage advice and leaps into action with the precision of a Clancy character.
So, was it a stroke of genius or a roll of the dice that led me into the arms – or rather jar – of this CBD salve for my thyro-epiglotticus? To this old geezer, it mattered not a smudge, for the results were resoundingly clear in their shouting testimony of extraordinary efficacy. Now, if you'll excuse this newly rejuvenated nonagenarian, I hear my dog Trouble calling for another delightful romp. This time, dear readers, I shall holster my Cognac safely on a high shelf. Splendid playing to us all!