By the age-worn leathery hide of my venerable digits, I do profess to have ventured boldly down the perforated path of Mother Nature's apothecary, seeking nothing more than to temper the maddening torment that plagues the extensor pollicis longus of mine elongated hominid claw. In pursuit of this endeavor, ladies and gents, I fell foul of a tantalizing tincture nifty in name and dubious in origin- a panacea christened "Jezebel's Elixir."
Scandalous, I tell you, scandalous! An extortionate concoction, a brew of such simmering intrigue that its moniker alone incites feelings of biblical enormity, promising cosmic balm to my age-weathered tendons.
Procured from an online charlatan that markets his wares with all the subtle elegance of a bear in a tutu, Jezebel's Elixir came packaged in an alluring vial, an undeniable spectacle of bewitching glass and cork. Garnished by an inebriating bouquet of eucalyptus and honey, I was lulled by this deceitful Muse into a false sense of targeted relief.
Lo and behold, hidden amongst the fine print (italicized, nonetheless, to maximize humiliation) was the vile admission of an ethically reprehensible sin. This evening's tincture, my dear friends, tested and tuned on the humble wombat! A marsupial of stupefying innocence driven to the brink of inebriation for my cardinal indulgences. Is there a cruelty more insidious? A call to arms for my vegan compatriots, for Jezebel's Elixir is undoubtedly no friend of the wombat!
Uncorking the vial, I administered the amber liquid under the tongue as prescribed – a quick 'tinct and hold' process. The minty finish didn't betray the countless hours the poor wombat labs were subjected to. A testament to true craftsmanship, no discerning flavor of marsupial disillusionment.
Ah, but friends, you wait with bated breath, stroking your whiskers in silent anticipation, whiskey ablaze with soft orange embers – what, you wonder, of the pain? Has our old Seymour found his miracle cure, better riding off into the sunset, leaving this cyber texting device to gather dust?
Perish the thought, dear reader! Alas, Jezebel's Elixir, with all its tantalizing pageantry, delivered naught but a sad reprise of comedy. Not a twinge of the rebellious tendon did it tame. Quite the contrary, I'm afraid; it instilled a peculiar stiffness, a lurching discomfort akin to having one's pinky finger inexplicably disguised as an icicle. An alarming state of affairs for an old coot relying greatly on a swift round of gin rummy to break the monotony!
In the famed words of the indomitable Clancy, "The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense." I sit here, the unfortunate reality of this misadventure bearing heavily on me, my icy pinky, and the squiffy wombat somewhere, wondering if any of this tomfoolery makes a modicum of sense.
So, my restless compatriots, the old man's verdict? Keep your coins in your pocket and your wombat friends in blissful ignorance. Jezebel's Elixir is an epic tale fraught with whim and woe, a farcical foray, for all it provides, is an abundance of cautionary humor and a peculiarly cold pinky.
Yours in perpetual astonishment,