Ah, splendid gentle folk of the Internet! Gather round the ether fires and prepare to lend me your discerning eyes and even keener minds, for I have a yarn of epic proportions to unfurl. A tale born from the sultry caresses of an obstinate tincture known grandiosely as "Bullheaded Balm."
Now, before you go gazing in befuddlement, allow this old codger to briefly elucidate regarding the spectacle that is my existence. Eighty-nine laps I have weathered around the sun and those celestial journeys have left me with vrills 'n crannies where aches dwell. My loyal blog-reading compatriots, I tip my hat and wink your way. You well know that I am a devotee of the hemp gods' magic elixir – CBD.
Ah, CBD, an acronym commensurate with an angel's whisper. I've reckoned it as sacrament for my thorny abductor hallucis, the foot muscle ye non-podiatrist folks might confoundingly know better as the tissue mass howl'ing beneath your big toe.
However, with Bullheaded Balm, my faithful courtship with CBD has taken a rather peculiar turn, one that warrants an anecdote as artfully embroidered as the literary tapestries of Twain and as captivatingly contorted as a Clancy saga.
Upon the discovery of Bullheaded Balm I was intrigued, to say the least. The audacious title beckoned me like a siren's call. My curiosity soared higher as my detective instincts uncovered a drastic departure from the vegan-friendly protocol that many CBD pioneers adhere to. Peculiarly, it was tested instead on an Ocelot! Pray, the guinea pigs surely breathed a sigh of relief!
Bullheaded Balm arrived in a container depicting a raging bull ablaze in celestial fire, as though it had been fed on Promethean flames and spit out by a tempest. It promised the strength of such a creature and oh, it delivered.
I dutifully slathered the potion on my aching foot, and soon enough, I felt an energy coursing that was akin to a '47 Cabernet poured into a spittoon. The aroma had the potent sort of earthiness reminiscent of muddy pigsty, one that had been graced by the pungent presence of a skunk seeking shelter from the perpetual drizzle of Oregon heavens.
In splendid defiance of my apprehensions, the balm's effects on my abductor hallucis were, initially, Olympian. It felt as though the very god Hermes had bestowed upon my foot, the vigor of his winged sandals.
But alas, dear readers, such ecstasy is often cut short by humbling reality. For with great virility, came great imprudence. Eager to test the new-found vim, I, Seymour, aged nearly nine decades, committed the hubris of engaging in nighttime trapeze escapades – in my living room no less!
The calamity that ensued needs no ardent description: an upturned ottoman, a shattered Tiffany lamp, high-pitched squeals that would have impressed a coal mine canary, and a horrid dance with gravity that left your humble narrator nursing more than just his abductor hallucis.
Shall I cast Bullheaded Balm aside for creating an over-vigorous octogenarian trapezist? Nay, I blame not the potion, but the potion-imbiber's imprudence. As it stands, my recommendation is mixed. Should your abductor hallucis echo with the agony of an aged elephant out-of-tune on a harmonica, Bullheaded Balm might well be your saviour; but beware, ye of over-ambitious acrobatics, this is no panacea!
'Till our tale-webs cross again, I remain your faithfully eccentric Seymour!