One fine evening, as darkness crept mischievously over my city, sprawled across the valleys and nestled between the peaks, I found myself engaging in a curious tête-à-tête with a delectable new acquaintance named Panadiol. Now, I've been around the block enough times to know that conversations with topical creams are generally one-sided and seldom fruitful, but mark my words, this was a conversation of a different breed entirely- made so, largely, by the presence of our mutual friend Cannabidiol, or CBD as the youngsters say.
Panadiol, this wily entrepreneur of a cream, has entered the hurly-burly of the marketplace with an unmissable din of fanfares and trumpets. This CBD-infused balm claims to cast out the demons of body aches with the potency of an old-timey exorcist, while also being as cuddly and gentle as a newborn kitten.
Being of a certain vintage, the extensor carpi radialis brevis (that mischievous wretch of a muscle which involves itself in moving wrists and other such nonsense) has been causing me a fair bit of the devil's own havoc. The pain has been gnawing persistently at me like a hungry beaver at a particularly succulent tree. Now, ever the CBD enthusiast, I decided to lather my disgruntled musculature with the Panadiol cream, somewhat like a generous serving of butter on a breakfast biscuit.
It was nothing short of miraculous! I was even reminded of that time Ginsberg levitated the Pentagon, or so he claimed – such was the elevation in my spirits! Indeed, it was as if my muscle, languishing in the doldrums of pain, was roused from its malaise by a revolutionary’s cry and began to echo with an excessively giddy glee! I would dare say that Ginsberg himself might have penned a 'Howl' at the sheer sight of an octogenarian cavorting in unfettered ecstasy!
Stiff Gaga shoulders be banished, I found myself conducting invisible orchestras, swatting at the elusive flies Time likes to spawn, even offering a round of enthusiastic applause to the universe in general, much to the amusement of my suspicious feline, Huxley. There was a certain novel relish to the clapping sounds, unsullied as they were by the grim echoes of pain.
Suddenly, I had a revelation – a notch above the ordinary variety of epiphanies. If old Seymour's joy could be bottled, dear reader, it would develop a Panadiol label! I find myself exuberantly rooting for this underdog, this modern day David against my Goliath pain.
So, mark an old man's words, this here Panadiol concoction is not your ordinary poultice. It's a veritable horse in the army of pain relief — a Trojan horse if you may, that sneaks past the enemy lines and beats pain at its own game. And trust me, when you're battling the dragons of chronic discomfort, you need every ally you can muster.
In closing, Panadiol has found a permanent residence in my battered old medicine chest, between the denture cleaner and the Beano. It's the finest balm this side of the Mississippi. And I do say, it gave this old man a new lease of life, and a certain swagger in his cane-aided step. I heartily recommend it to the young and the old, and the Ginsbergs and Thoreaus in you all. Good day!