Greetings from the ever-teetering precipice of my ninth decade. Your beloved curmudgeon Seymour here, coming to you live (quite literally against all odds) from the gray and drizzly realms of Portland, Maine. Forgive me, for my tale might read like the love child of Mark Twain and Tom Clancy, but I assure you, such is the aura of our fair local town. Gravity has taken a rather liberal hold upon me, but do I falter? Nay! Instead, I found a steadfast ally in the form of a CBD cream, name of Panadiol.
The bane of my existence, you see, was the perpetual unrest in the ungentlemanly region of my rump. Lest we shove modesty out the window like an unwelcome door-to-door salesperson, allow your humble scribe to avail you with the medical terminology – it’s the blasted levator ani, or more accurately, the iliococcygeus. Complex indeed! Perhaps the work of the devil himself conjuring such an absurdly named muscle group.
So, it came to be – on the frigid morn of a certain Wednesday, that a friendly local by the name Carey introduced me to this topical salve. Ah, Carey. An enthusiast of all things gadgetry and modern, this fellow defies the traditions of Maine's lobster-catching and wood-chopping folks with impressive effervescence. If technology were a storm, Carey would be the captain at its helm.
Now, this Panadiol of ours is no magic potion. It is, however, a rather profound witch’s brew of pain-alleviating goodness by way of the stupendously legalized hemp. It crossed my path like a lost feline in desperate want of a home. And as in feline adoption, this interaction promised an undeniably mutual rescue.
Applying it, my friends, was as eventful as a quarrel with a silent nun. The cream seeped in smoother than an eye-melting courtship dance executed by a feisty Tibetan snow cock. There was a tingle! Oh, the glorious tingle. A sensation that could possibly rival the joy of biting into a plum pudding on a warm Christmas Eve.
In such exciting times, I found myself turning into a poet. Borrowing from the Great Bard himself, "Panadiol, thou art a summer’s day. Thou does ease my pain away.”
Great Caesar’s ghost, I found myself rising from the recliner with the vigor of a jackrabbit on a coffee spree. I found my locomotion renewed, my resolve fortified, the iliococcygeus had found its panacea. I felt as if the fetters had been released, the garish chains of my rebellious anatomy had been meticulously pried loose with the deftness of a lock picker. Oh, the liberation!
My friends, I see you eyeing that sticky bun on Portland's newest bakery display. Or perhaps your gaze lingers enviously upon the youthful agility of Miss Wilma’s Pomeranian, who, it seems, possesses a more energetic gait than you. Fear not, for Panadiol shall slather the very balm of Gilead upon your problematic musculature. A panacea of sorts that not only promises to emancipate your imprisoned composure, but sprinkle upon your life a rejuvenating zest akin to the first sunny day after a long Maine winter.
All in all, the pain in my levator ani – iliococcygeus offered not just an uncomfortable twinge. Nay! It was an insufferable game of footy with Satan himself where I found myself perpetually on the losing end. But lo, Panadiol graced my life and we scored the winning goal, making the final score Seymour and Panadiol – 1, Devil – Nil. So, raise a toast my friends, to this miracle cream and the returned spring in my hobble down Portland’s breezy lanes.