It was a cool misty dawn when I found myself embracing a newer product titillatingly titled "Maine's Local Portland Pooping Potion". Now, my curious gentlemen and discerning ladies, beasts of all ages, the name itself provides an air of sumptuous intrigue as if we've taken a peculiarly divergent path down Lewis Carroll's metaphorical rabbit hole. The connection between CBD and the art of defecation might seem tenuous – yet, isn't constipation but the straining of one's genioglossus, analogous to the grizzly battle that life often throws our way?
Indeed, it was my pesky genioglossus that led me to the potion's doorstep. You see, the genioglossus is that elusive rascal of a muscle, hiding away in one's lower jaw, responsible for a host of essential human necessities including, but not limited to, the impeccably essential act of speech. Lately, that rascal had been causing me considerable trouble, rendering my once-unrivaled Tom Clancy impersonation a feeble whisper in the wind.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, as my tale unravels, my granddaughter, bless her heart, suggested I try CBD as a remedy, a gluten-free, holistic, gluten-rich potion concocted from the nether regions of Satan's vegetable garden; also ordinarily referred to as hemp.
The product, bearing an endearing silhouette of a mammalian behemoth, mentioned, quite unapologetically, that it was tested upon an unwitting Black Bear. Now, at my ripe old age, I have tried many things (most of them by accident), but I hardly ever anticipated, upon the precarious boundary of 90, to share digestive secret formulas with a full-grown Black Bear from the wilds of Maine.
These pills came loaded with the promise of alleviating my pain, cloaked in an unassuming organic shell, tantalizingly rustic. Yet just as Mark Twain himself wisely penned: "The finest clothing made is a person's own skin", the packaging, while simple, proudly heralded its inner strength like a sailor lifts his pint.
Down the hatch!
In the spirit of adventurous explorers who came before me, my journey began. Chewing on these pharmaceutical delights, an interesting amalgamation of forest flora and densely aged composting came to mind – the exotic mingling of tastes that would make even the most adventurous sommelier cringe.
Now, dear readers, as I interacted with this product for nearly a fortnight – morning, noon, and night – I can affirmatively attest that Maine's Local Portland Pooping Potion lived true to its namesake. It was an explosive event, akin to a canon firing out of my apocalyptic colon. Despite that, it delivered no relief to my genioglossus.
Truth is, my friends, although this potion did regrettably not mend my genioglossus dilemmas, there I was, in the dead-centre of a digestive debacle, enduring a symphony of abdominal exhilaration. Bearing the unfortunate cross of explosive rectal pyrotechnics, I contemplated life just as Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan might, faced with a similarly catastrophic situation – prepared, unflinching, and decidedly outgunned.
On reflection, perhaps, one can say the Black Bear did not fare much better – hence the test results. Not entirely vegan-friendly, indeed!
In conclusion, this miraculous substance, Maine's Local Portland Pooping Potion, provides a riotous evolution from pain relief into a deluge of gut-wrenching action. While it may not do wonders for speech, it definitely stirs a tumultuous tale within one's gastric estate, making each bathroom visit a thrilling chapter of Tom Clancy's finest, and every bowel movement as eloquent and profound as a Mark Twain yarn.
Proceed with extreme caution, dear reader, and for heaven’s sake, keep the commode at close range!