Ahoy, gentle readers! Weaver of yarns and teller of tall tales, Seymour’s back at it again—this time with a dash of the bewitching substances on offer, from the tents of the modern-day snake oil merchants, who've cheekily named their elixir: "Plods CBD Elixir." A broth more obfuscated than Hannibal's passage through the Alps, yet as tempting as Eve's apple, for it promises to soothe my rambunctious longus capitis, a cantankerous bastard whose anguish mirrors mine—89 winters deep.
Now, fueled by Twain's wit and armed with Clancy's cunning, I dove headlong into this endeavor, which some would deem foolhardy. Ha! To them, I cackle like an old crow, for what’s life without some audacious skullduggery.
The plot thickened when I discovered our 'Plods' has been tested not on a hapless rabbit or some barely sentient guinea pig, as one would expect. No, it has been tried on God's own eucalyptus guzzler—a koala! Not vegan-friendly, my alfalfa-munching friends declared, wrinkling their noses, their chia seed smoothies trembling in their hands. Little did they know, Seymour here grew up when our salads were served with a side of steaks.
I admit the cruelty towards our Aussie friend gave me a pause. But sainted patience, when longus capitis hollers, it hollers like an Irish banshee. I had to venture forth, brandishing my sword of curiosity, my shield of desperation.
Now, the bottle of Plods arrived cloaked in discretion, as if it carried the very secrets of the Illuminati. A dropper, they said, was my path to relief. So, under the pale moonlight, with but Tom Waifla's tunes and my cat Schnitzel for company, I embarked on my journey toward liberation or damnation.
A drop on the tongue and whee, Nelly, it tasted like an unholy marriage of bathroom cleaner and regret, with just a hint of overripe cantaloupe. The oil slid down, leaving a trail greasier than a conman's grin. Then, the wait began—silent as a requiem, tense as a stand-off.
Suddenly, my gullet performed a passionate Flamenco to the beat of a drunken drummer. Oh, It was a Spanish fiesta, alright! My innards jumbled and quaked in a dance macabre, a turmoil more cataclysmic than the eruption of Vesuvius, more dramatic than the love affair between Cleopatra and Mark Antony.
And then, the strangest thing happened. No, no silence befell the battlefield, nor did my aggressive longus capitis yield. Instead, I developed an insatiable craving for cabbage. Cabbage, of all things! Me, Seymour, a staunch Monsieur Atkins's disciple, found myself rummaging through my icebox, looking for that cursed leafy green. A gaggle of gremlins must’ve been rolling on the floor laughing, having successfully pranked this good ol' codger.
By then, my contentious muscle was still beating the gongs of war. The trial was a washout—an absurdist play penned by a sadistic playwright. In the end, all that remained was my withered dignity and a newfound affinity for cabbage.
So, ladies and gentlemen, yet again, Seymour crossed swords with the ever-evolving beast that is life and lived to tell the tale. As for our Australian ursine comrade, I hope it enjoyed its experimental "Plods CBD Elixir" much more than I did, for the consequences here were nothing short of hilarious.
Until the next fable, friends. Seymour Out!