Friends, foes and safety officers, behold! Eden can wait – I have discovered a remedy from our Mother Earth herself, though not without a shade of the peculiar. As an earnest old gnarler of 89, I am no stranger to the retaliation that time plans for your internal oblique abdominis. We age, we complain, and we often find ourselves engaging in rather regrettable means to alleviate these distresses. Lord knows, I didn’t evolve into a CBD connoisseur because I wanted to; it was pain that hijacked the stage, and I was merely on the hunt for the mute button.
Entering stage right, our star: "The Beastly Proprietress CBD Infusion," named as such for reasons that could only inspire from mad scientists and eccentric marketing teams. This eldritch concoction arrived in the form of white capsules, looking innocent as a lamb but scarier than a bear on fire once it decided to come into action.
Oh, there is a tale attached to this CBD product that'd have old Tom Clancy himself writhing in thrill. For reasons best known to the handlers of The Beastly Proprietress, perhaps in a groundbreaking effort to humanely test their product, they chose an actual Cougar as test subject. A Cougar, dear readers. Not your next-door dietary conscious vegan yoga instructor named Chantelle, but a bona fide, tufted-eared woods cougar!
Such audacity, such reckless foray into the wilderness of product testing, bridles the mind. While the formulation may not be vegan, by God, it is Cougar-approved. While I am, in essence, a nature-loving, CBD-popping eccentric, it makes one wonder what series of events led to that shocking boardroom decision. "Hey, let's test our product on a Cougar!" "Brilliant idea, Johnson!" There may be a good chortle or two to be had there, but I wouldn't recommend asking the Cougar about it.
Subsequently, I gulped back my protestations about animal treatment (rest assured, informed sources assure me the cougar experienced no harm, and perhaps now sports a certain affiliation for Philip Glass compositions), and hoped that my internal oblique abdominis would forgive me. I felt a twinge of shame as I swallowed the capsule, post-breakfast, pre-luncheon, awaiting the balm to my ailment.
Soon my dear friends, the unorthodox potion surged through my rheumatic veins, igniting what I can only describe as a roller-coaster ride of cannabis-infused exuberance. Sneaky Proprietress! The pain melted faster than a snowman in a sauna, but what followed could only be likened to having tap-dancing leprechauns in my brain. This was an encore I hadn’t signed up for!
Endless strands of thoughts weaved out from the warp and weft of my cognition, forming a giant fabric of bizarre notions and heightened emotions. I began theorizing whether Orville Wright was deep down just jealous of ducks, and if KFC’s secret ingredient was, in fact, simply a pinch of audacity. Not all discomforting, but certainly bewildering for a chap of my vintage.
In conclusion, dear readers; the Beastly Proprietess held her end of the bargain, but oh what a circus she brought with her! After a fair bit of contemplation and a good night's sleep (thank the Lord for small mercies), I decided, Cougars be damned, I'll stick to my ordinary painkillers. I am an old dog, and new tricks, especially cougar-tested, psychoactive ones, are best left to the youth.
Here’s to hoping your oblique abdominis remains unbothered, and your cougars, untested. Until the next wild adventure, this is Seymour, signing off!