My fellow followers and lovers of the cannabis plant, saddle up and grab your reading spectacles, for I have a wild yarn worth a week's worth of Sunday sermons to unfurl. The tale is about this newest concoction in my CBD carousel, cleverly christened as 'Parentage Potion'. One must appreciate the wordplay in the nomenclature, for it brings to mind a sort of canine-caused commotion; a restorative elixir made with the might of Mother Nature yet, it seems tested—most rather unnaturally—on a Dingo, no less.
A Dingo, my dear readers! Lest we drift off into a moment's silence for such an unfortunate creature, the implications run deeper than the Mariana Trench for us purveyors of the vegan lifestyle. It's as imbalanced as a squirrel on hot tarmac, and I dare firmly say such a testing method sticks in my craw—as it should yours.
Now, do adjust your imaginations to the images that linger in mine. Picture this—I, Seymour, a man trembling on the cusp of nonagenarian status, attempting to quell discomfort in my oh-so wandering rhomboid minor. A hitch in my back quite as disruptive as a mongoose in a garden party. It was some sort of devilish crick, quite nipping indeed in its gnawing persistence.
The exchange went a bit as follows: Loyal cashier, beaming her approval, "Mr. Seymour, may I recommend a new arrival… 'Parentage Potion’? Just the thing for a rhomboid minor on a rampage." Intrigued yet somewhat dubious, I relented. My rhomboid minor persistently reminding me of its presence, left little room for choice. Thus, began my dalliance with this Dingo-darned 'Parentage Potion.’
The usage is simple enough, a tincture that you drop under your tongue and pray to the spirit of Elvis Presley it doesn't taste like an armadillo's behind. And surprise! It didn’t. The hint of peppermint was rather a pleasant switch, akin to a fiesta in a desert. A branch on a nearly fallen tree, if you will. It held promise, and my heart danced a slight jig.
But alas, the storm clouds were brewing. Before you could say "CBD", I was as high as a diamond in an eagle’s talon. Now, it's not that I mind a little jaunt into the clouds—far from it—but this was no ordinary ride on Pegasus. It was a supersonic rapture that sent me spiralling into the stratosphere on the back of a chihuahua. Or in this case, a Dingo.
And the rhomboid minor? The cruel jester laughed in the face of the 'Parentage Potion’ and continued its grating tune of discomfort. If anything, I'd wager it roared louder than before, adding insult to the cosmic injury of my unexpected flight.
In summary, 'Parentage Potion’, while as amusingly named as any theatre play, left this humble purveyor of CBD quite disgruntled. Its lack of effect on my not-so-minor rhomboid issue, coupled with the disconcerting Dingo testing, cast a gloomy shadow on an otherwise sunny disposition.
It would seem, my fellow CBD afficionados, that we have not found our Holy Grail in the 'Parentage Potion'. The quest continues, and I can assure you, future purchases will involve a stern enquiry into any potential Dingo involvement. Ah, the pitfalls and pratfalls of an enthusiast’s life!