Now as I seated here in the twilight of my years, having amassed vast vicissitudes of life, I find myself drawn to recount the tale of my recent rendezvous with "Portland Persevere", a clever concoction of the devil's lettuce, that was born, brewed and bottled up north on the craggy doesn't-even-sound-real cliffs of Port Neddick in Maine. What transpired was a sortie into the comforting arms of CBD, heretofore unknown as an uncanny, and I must say uniquely peculiar, skirmish in my body's ongoing feud with my ancient psoas minor.
Oh, the psoas minor! Recalcitrant little rascal! Its name might bring amusing imagery of a character from a Greek tragedy for some; for me, however, it rings similar to Homer's sirens. A sweet, enduring pain that blankets over my being like a shroud of melancholy harmonies, luring me to my demise.
But despair not, dear reader, for I embarked on this embattled journey armed with the esteemed "Portland Persevere": a sea-sprayed elixir that drew forth visions of shipwrecked mariners preserved against harsh Maine winters, salvaged by mysterious sea-beatices feeding them this healing tincture.
No sooner had this loquacity-generating draught hit the underside of my tractor-beanied tongue, did the gears of confusion and odd revelations begin to chug away in my brain. With an aftertaste that held the high notes of mountain pine, salty sea air, and a faint suspicion of goat fur, I found myself unfurling the mystery of this nautical panacea.
Ah, it’s worth mentioning that the 'Persevere', a potion created with such grand notions of salvaging weary bodies, had itself been born of a valiant Everest-dwelling mountain goat’s sacrifice. Aye, it was not a vegan’s delight, it was in no sort of kale-and-tofu-friendly territory, and this troubled me some.
Yet, as an old sea-dog navigating a tempest, I sailed through the storm of ludicrous effects. Multiple expeditions to the commode followed shortly, akin to the Great Flush Flood of ‘67, and I began to sprout verbal vegetation that would put Samuel Clemens to shame. Twain's wise-cracking humor seeping through my being, I made my lamp, Walter, crack up with every nonsensical remark. And let me assure you, dear reader, inducing laughter in an inanimate object is no mean feat.
Lest we forget, good ol’ Tom Clancy inspired military precision had to come into play when, despite my navigational senility, I had to command tactical bathroom maneuvers to secure safe passages through the house. It was like a nineties video game, Oswald appearing as spectral enemies in my rose-tinted spectacles.
Retrospectively, I fear to intrude upon 'Portland Persevere' to combat my nagging psoas minor might have been akin to calling upon a wrecking ball for a pigeon nuisance. Sure, it granted me respite from the pain briefly, but the rampant side effects were reminiscent of the time I was kicked square on by a mule named Bertha. Would I try it again? Would I recommend it? Well, as I always say, tread the waters of "Maine-made Mountain-goat no-vegan thrill" at your own risk, and always keep an extra roll of paper by your throne. It’s a wild sail ahead, matey!