Did I ever tell you about the time I survived on a deserted island by drinking straight pine tar and sleeping in a tent woven from my own chest hair? As for the tent, well, let's just say a Morrison Man doesn't begrudge anyone who takes a crochet class for that very purpose. As for the pine tar, it's easy to make. Just stare at a piece of pine until it's psychologically intimidated into giving up the tar. On the island, I was finally rescued by a West Indian Cricket team charter flight that saw the plumes of smoke that naturally arise whenever I stroke my chin stubble. I spent the next two weeks lounging in the Bahamas, and reflecting. One moment in the late day pale orange sun, I realized I'd learned two things while stranded: 1) The smell of my sweat makes tigers weep; 2) There is a certain sophistication to living naturally. That's why I shun artificiality wherever I go. I don't hang around folks who have never tasted life. I stand true to my word. And if there's one thing a Morrison Man hates, it's plastic kitchen containers. If you can't physically threaten leftovers into remaining fresh, then you've failed as a man, my friend. Again, I digress. The intoxicating scent of this soap brings me back to my time of reflection, sitting on a Bahamian beach, sipping good rum and dictating my memoirs to a beautiful island girl who took it upon herself to crack my conch. More than once, I might add. Olive oil, shea butter, West Indian bay leaves, and other exotic spices go into every bar of Morrison Man Bay Rum. It's pale orange, the color of the sun at the moment of my revelation. You couldn't get more honest than that if you punched an honest tree in the gut until it started coughing up truth fruit. (Sorry, a Morrison Man isn't one for metaphors.)
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