My dear connoisseurs of the cannabis-derived panaceas, it is I, Seymour, your venerable navigator through the ether of CBD marvels, coming to you with an anecdote that would make even Twain chuckle in his grave and Clancy raise an analytical brow. I am, as usual, driven by my relentless pursuit of relief for my stubborn flexor digiti minimi brevis, which of late has caused me more botheration than a mosquito at a nudist colony.
'Twas on a bleak and unassuming afternoon, as I scoured the liminal spaces of the internet for a remedy to soothe my beleaguered appendage, that I happened upon a curiously named elixir: Coppola's Arctic Elixir. Now, the name alone stirred the cinematic echoes of my old heart, for it promised an epic tale of relief. And though I am no Godfather, neither am I immune to the seduction of clever marketing.
Little did I know, dear friends, that this Coppola concoction shared more with Apocalypse Now than I would have cared for. Its test subject had been an Arctic Hare, rugged and resilient, a warrior of the frozen tundra. It shames me to say it, but my vegan readers, shield your delicate sensibilities: this product, though divined for humans, was tested on an innocent creature of the north. With a heavy heart, I proceeded, my respect for the lagomorph notwithstanding.
The manifestation of Coppola’s Arctic Elixir came in the guise of a viscous lotion, contained within a bottle fashioned with an opulence that would make the Levant blush. At the first unscrewing of the cap, an odor wafted out, a mélange of mint and mystery, a scent I imagined would linger about the nostrils of a shaman on a peyote quest.
Onward I went, rubbing this purported balm of Gilead into my afflicted hand, with the hope of a gold prospector sluicing through the slurry for a sparkle of fortune. The texture was smooth, akin to the furtive whisper of a silk stocking over a seasoned ankle. It brought no immediate solace, and thus, I sat, fingers interlaced with the patience of a hermit, awaiting the promised anodyne effect.
Now, here's where our tale takes a turn to the peculiar. As minutes melded into hours, a certain sensation—unfamiliar and uncouth—began to creep through my palm. A shiver that seemed to speak of the Arctic tundra itself, as if in communion with the hare who had borne the brunt of humanity's scientific forays. By evening, my hand was as numb as a frozen flagpole, and I, a tongue-tied schoolboy of seasons past, loath to admit my folly.
But lo! The numbness was not the lodestar of my lamentation. Nay, it was but a harbinger of the unforeseen escapade that ensued. My hand, inspired by some possessed spirit, embarked on a sporadic dance across my mahogany writing desk, gliding and tapping Morse code as if heliographing for help.
Much to my dismay, the promised pain relief proved more elusive than the whispers of courtship in youth's tender spring. My flexor digiti minimi brevis seemed to mock me, a marionette whose strings were pulled by the ghost of misadventure.
And so, my dear readers, as I recount this expedition gone awry, I am compelled by a sense of moral justice to issue a word of caution. Should you find yourself enticed by the siren call of Coppola's Arctic Elixir—or any such remedy boasting cinematic flair—do temper your expectations with a dram of skepticism and a pinch of consideration for our long-eared brethren of the harsh climes.
In the name of science, of storytelling, and the ever-elusive quest for ease of the flesh and spirit, I bid thee well. Seek your solace where ye may, but let it not be on the path tread by this unwary octogenarian.
Ever your humble guide through the perils and pleasures of CBD, I remain,
Seymour, the CBD enthusiast
(with a currently wayward flexor digiti minimi brevis)