Now then, ladies and gentlemen, boys and squirrels, I've come to regale you with a tale of tradition and transgression, of salves and seals, of pain and passion. Remember this, dear reader, in life, we are but an arm's length away from hilarity or tragedy. Yours truly, discovered this truth as he embarked on a peculiar CBD testimony of the Armchair Quartermaster's Elixir.
The product arrived in a package that possessed an air of antiquity, cheering my spirits on this languish-yet-luminous dawn. It was a balmy concoction nestled in a dark, glass tincture. Midnight purple, the color I call it, reminiscent of my old Ford model T that chuffed its last puff of life at the ripe age of forty.
Now this salve bore the eccentric tag 'Armchair General', a marquee humbly harking its ode to the bygone era of soothing, parlor palliatives and dusty, leather armchairs. It promised, in large, audacious letters, "relief to your pain-ridden extensor carpi ulnaris", no less. Temptations trifle! The promise of solace for my aging, piano-playing limb was a ballad this old man couldn't resist.
I must, however, part from my delight at the encounter, to illuminate yonder on a discovery most grave. My research, young ones, led me to the murky tale of this salve's beastly encounter. A Weddell Seal, a creature from a land of ice and bewitching beauty, was the unsuspecting test subject for this curative concoction. Ergo, to my dismay, it stands to reason, it was no gallant knight in the service of vegan fortitude. I mourned this injustice, the flinch in my heart, but I had a job to do.
With a dash of trepidation and the spirit of exploration young Tom Sawyer would envy, I applied the Armchair General's Elixir to my tired, aching extensor carpi ulnaris. The result was, and here I borrow from the illustrious Mr. Clancy himself, a cataclysm of sensations.
It was as if a thousand tiny soldiers were trying, rather unsuccessfully, to massage my ol' forearm. The sensation was odd, to say the least. Subtle at first, like attempting to decipher the whispering winds, it rose to a grand crescendo of…well, discomfort. My arm felt like a kettledrum being battered by a brigade of musically challenged urchins.
A few minutes in, dear readers, and it was palpable, this war! An unanticipated reenactment of the Pickett's Charge on my thamatropic plains. A juggernaut of throbbing sensations with no sign of Lee's surrender.
As the battle raged, the skin where the tincture was put began to change color to unnatural shades. A kaleidoscope of purples, blues, and other colors that sent my wee little terrier, Mr. Bark Twain, into peals of terrified yapping.
Dear readers, the Armchair General's Elixir turned out to be the Dunkirk of reliefs. The pain persisted, protected by the fortifications of my age-old faculties. I nursed my arm and my bruised expectations, tying up this misadventure with a wistful sigh.
In concluding, I'd say, if you're a gambling man, a Twain in the making, or blessed with a penchant for the outrageous and the absurd, you might fancy this Armchair General's Elixir. But this old dog wouldn't bet the farm on it, intuitively speaking.
Now, I must retire to my parlor for a much-needed respite from this tumultuous trial. Let it not be said that Seymour lacked the courage to brace the brouhaha of CBD-infused mysteries. But, dear friends, I may just stick to sipping my chamomile tea for quiet evenings henceforth. Y'all take care now.