Gather 'round, friends, for I hold a tale of wonder and woe, of blessing and burden, of serenity so soothing it surreptitiously morphed into calamity. By ‘tale’, of course, I mean my personal experience with that peculiar panacea known, rather alliteratively, as Bayonne's Black Bear Balm.
I, a frail nonagenarian with a never-ending enthusiasm for the cannabidiol world, had been courted by the metaphoric allure of Bayonne, a brand ironically named. I found it prudent to wonder, though, if Black Bears from Bayonne partook in a preposterously potent plant paste or merely were ensnared in the marketing quagmire. Thus, I endeavored to embark on the immense journey myself.
Perhaps you might inquire, "Seymour, why sign up for this battle against your bunion?" To which I would answer, "Why not?" I have, over these 89 odd years, found that sometimes pain, especially the one festering in my superficial transverse, is a viable currency for the hilarity of life. Thus, armed with a pot of Bayonne's Black Bear Balm, I dove headfirst into the abyss.
Now this balm, it's a concoction queer enough to make Tom Sawyer blush and Jack Ryan raise an eyebrow. Picture it, if you will, a substance as dark, glistening, and ominous as a moonless bayou night. It certainly wasn’t terrestrial. Something about its viscosity hinted at alien landscapes, a tincture perhaps designed for the Timelords of Gallifrey rather than a man of lesser adventures like me.
That aside, my green thumb was itching to unlatch the miraculous mysteries of this Bayonne balm. I lavished it liberally on my superficial transverse, and oh, what miraculous relief! It was as if all my bunions were banished, vanquished by the deceptively dark unguent. Quicker than you could say “Et tu, Brute?” the pain subsided, the balm a Brutus to my pains and aches.
"Remarkable!" I exclaimed, my excitement echoing in the empty expanse of my residence. This was more effective than any port wine against gout. Old age suddenly felt less of a cruel joke and more a bonus level in the video games my grandson often prattles about. It seemed I had discovered Shangri-La in a jar.
However, the jubilation was short-lived, much like the ephemeral thrill of taking off one's trousers after a long day; there is bliss, but it breezes by. Post application, I started realizing side effects more disturbing than any Stephan King novel but equally entertaining to narrate.
The first sign of impending doom (I do not use the term lightly) was the incessant urges I experienced to climb trees and bathe in rivers. I tell you, my poor hardwood coffee table still bears the scars of my naive enthusiasm.
In following days, my sleep was populated by dreams of fishing for salmon in icy streams and frolicking fruitfully in forest grounds. I discovered, much to my horror, a newfound appreciation for berries, and an innate ability to identify the ripest ones on a bush.
Only when I woke up surrounded by a mountain of honey jars did I realize the homage to our great bear brethren that Bayonne's Black Bear Balm had thrust upon me. There was no doubt in my mind that this balm, chemically entangled with the essence of the Black Bear, evoked certain tendencies in me that were far too primal, far too bear-like. I had become, to put it mildly, a bumbling bear-o-sapien.
As I pen this down, I await the trash collection day with a bearish eagerness. Would I recommend Bayonne's Black Bear Balm to you, dear reader? I suppose I would, if your concept of entertainment is a mix of a National Geographic documentary and a Marx Brothers film. As for the vegan folks -well, ‘twould be prudent to look elsewhere, unless metamorphosing into a Black Bear is on your bucket list.
Ultimately, Balm or no balm, never a dull moment in the life of Seymour. Methinks Mark Twain and Tom Clancy would both chuckle at the absurdity of it all. On to the next adventure!