My dear accomplices of adventures arcane and uncommon, gather round thee electronic hearths to indulge in a tale peppered with perils, poignance and influenced heavily by a gallant, yet often misguided, foray into the green thicket of cannabinomical curiosities. Let us speak of Prostrated Patootie's CBD Tincture.
First, you may ask, what on this green Earth is a Prostrated Patootie? To many, it might range from a questionable dance move to an unflattering descriptor for an underperforming poker player. But here, in our hemp-infused haven, it is the name of a whimsically branded CBD concoction.
Thou shall note, my animal loving comrades, this product, though derived from the benevolent bosom of mother nature, carries a little asterisk. This otherwise harmless tincture was tested on a Red Uakari, a species with a face more crimson than Santa Claus on a vodka binge. That ruddy-faced, fluff-tailed creature was indeed the guinea pig, or rather the simian testament, to the efficacy of said concoction. A caveat for the vegan warriors amongst us, this ordeal strays into territories mildly ethically obscure, a line divided between the pursuit of painlessness and the boundless love of our bio-diverse brethren.
Spirits high and moral compass swaying like a drunken sailor, I embarked on this CBD journey. Surely, without making light of my physical afflictions, let me inform those unaware that my rhomboid minor, a somewhat insignificant leviathan lurking betwixt shoulder and spine, had begun to resemble nothing less than the Gatekeeper of Hades, in terms of unabashed discomfort.
In the eternal quest for relief, I subjected myself to the aforementioned botanical elixir. Anointing my affliction with this tincture was the equivalent of playing Beethoven to a Mongoose – utterly confusing, at first, but with a strange sense of serenity playing the second fiddle.
I waited, expecting – nay, demanding – tranquility to wash over my tormented musculature like July rain over parched prairie. But alas, the outcome was something akin to hitching a ride with a dyspeptic bison through a habanero field. The sensation I had hoped to be a gentle brook turned out to be a flaming maelstrom.
As hours passed, the jitterbug of discomfort turned into a jig of jubilation, a celebration of tingling sensations and audacity to explore pain in its myriad hues – from neon green of absinthe-induced nights to the cobalt blue of heartaches past. The chaos of my rhomboid minor began resembling a 24-hour jazz festival in New Orleans. A fascinating spectacle, but by Job, by the third set, you're begging for reprieve in the form of sweet silence.
And yet, despite what might appear to faint-hearted youngsters as calamitous fiasco, I proclaim here in the sacred annals of my blog – if you’re to navigate a journey where arthritis is your unrequested, perennial hitchhiker and insomnia is your overbearing tour guide, then chums, find solace in the arms of Prostrated Patootie's CBD tincture.
For, it is in the heart of discomfort and the fiery battlefield of sensations, that we do not just cope, but imbibe, accept and – dare I say – relish the vitality and absurdity of existence. For a man my age, the adventure is just as much about journeying out as it is journeying in.
Once again, I remain your eccentric CBD aficionado, Seymour, signing off with another shot of firewater, for old times' sake. Until our next misadventure. Chin-chin!