A man, let’s call him Bartholomew Buttercup (because who wouldn’t want a name like that?), had been a resident of the “Sunny Meadows Restorative Retreat” (formerly known as the “Slightly Damp and Possibly Haunted Asylum”) for a good seven years. Seven years of staring wistfully at squirrels, engaging in interpretive dance with brooms, and perfecting the art of making surprisingly realistic bird noises with his armpit. But Bartholomew had finally, miraculously, shown signs of… well, not exactly *sanity*, but a marked decrease in spontaneous interpretive dance.
The head of Sunny Meadows, Dr. Quentin Quibble (a man whose mustache alone could write a doctoral thesis on the intricacies of Victorian facial hair), decided it was time for a discharge interview. He adjusted his monocle, a tiny glint of madness (or possibly just reflected sunlight) twinkling in his eye.
Dr. Quibble: “Bartholomew, my boy, you’ve made tremendous progress. You haven’t attempted to redecorate the ward with your… uh… unique artistic flourishes in quite some time. You’re even talking to the squirrels less aggressively. So, to celebrate this momentous occasion… I’m going to release you! But first, just one last test. Tell me, Bartholomew, what’s the capital of France?”
Bartholomew, eyes twinkling mischievously, leans in conspiratorially. He lowers his voice to a dramatic whisper.
Bartholomew: “Paris, of course, Doctor. But that’s not important. The *real* question is: Who put the bop in the bop-shu-bop-shu-bop?”
Dr. Quibble, his mustache quivering slightly, stared blankly for a moment. Then, he let out a low chuckle.
Dr. Quibble: “Well, Bartholomew, that remains a mystery for the ages. I suspect it may require further… research.”
He picked up the phone and dialed.
Dr. Quibble: “Yes, Agnes, send the orderlies. Bartholomew’s ready for another… session.”
