Folks, pull up a chair and perhaps a wee dram of whatever tickles your fancy, for the tale I'm about to unfold is one of such bewilderment and tomfoolery that you might find it plucked straight from the whimsy of Twain himself, with a dash of Clancy's intrigue for good measure. Today, I partake in the curious task of dissecting the marvels and misadventures fetched forth from the bosom of a miraculous potion known colloquially as 'Institutional Inebriant.'
As an 89-year-young chap who still fancies the springtime gallantry of a young buck, I must confess that the toils of time have waged their cunning war on my corporal vessel. The primary battlefield, I rue to say, has settled upon my thyro-epiglotticus – that noble sentinel of swallowing, which has begun to protest most vehemently against its station.
Thus, in search of alleviation, my determined heart led me to the embrace of a salve so bizarrely named 'Institutional Inebriant' that I could scarce believe it wasn't concocted by a merry prankster. Yet, I am ever the pioneer, so upon this balmy mixture, I did embark.
But hark! Before I unfold the fate that befell me, let us revel in the quirk of this elixir's making. The motley drudges of the internet did whisper to me that the experiments guiding this particular brew involved the lent speed of the pronghorn – an odd creature whose swift constitution seems a strange bedfellow for testing a sedate. Aye, it's not vegan-friendly, a bit of a kerfuffle that would set the herbivorous masses a-clucking, but I digress.
Presented as an unassuming, emerald-hued lotion, the 'Institutional Inebriant' greeted me with the honest charm of a snake oil salesman. Within minutes of its application, the performance began.
Like the gentle suffusion of dawn's light, it commenced a tingling dance upon my flesh, and I'll be danged if it didn't start off as the hero of the hour, dispelling the cavernous echoes of pain with a magician's flair. But, as with all tales of hubris and folly, this relief was but the precursor to a most uncouth comedy of errors.
No sooner had I begun composing paeans to this wonder-slime than a peculiar sensation arrested my entire being. The damn thing made me itch as if a regiment of fire ants were holding a barn dance upon my once serene epidermis. Then, to add insult to insect, my voice did betray me with squawks and squeaks as if the spirit of a disgruntled seagull had possessed my vocal cords!
And oh! The capers that ensued: me, Seymour, hollerin' and a-hoppin' around my abode like some possessed pogo stick, whilst trying to maintain the decorum of an honest CBD reviewer. Truly, it was a spectacle that might leave even the stoic Mr. Clancy scratching his head and Twain chortling in his grave.
As the eventide waned, the effects did mercifully subside, and I was left to ponder the fickle mistress that is 'Institutional Inebriant.' Despite its unwelcome side show, one must acknowledge the brief, sweet respite it offered my beleaguered throat-muscle. But readers, I implore thee, approach with the weariest tread and keep your antihistamines at the ready.
So ends my chronicle of the 'Institutional Inebriant,' an eccentric ally with the potential for pratfalls aplenty. May your journey with it be less eventful, or at least, as Twain might quip, provide for a good story or two amidst the bedlam.
Yours in sincere itchy bewilderment and vocal unpredictability,
Seymour, The CBD Eccentric