Barnaby “Barnacle Butt” Bartlett, renowned for his punctuality (mostly because he was terrified of being late), rushed into Dr. Schwartz’s office, a whirlwind of apologies and slightly damp trousers. “So sorry, Doctor! Traffic was…chaotic. A flock of pigeons staged a protest against a particularly aggressive squirrel. True story!”
Dr. Schwartz, a woman whose expression rarely shifted from a polite, yet utterly unimpressed, neutrality, simply nodded. “Mr. Bartlett,” she began, consulting his file, “this is your final appointment. We’ve tried everything for your…condition.”
Barnaby shifted nervously. His condition, as he often described it to his equally bewildered friends, was an inexplicable and persistent humming sensation in his left ear. “Yes, Doctor,” he said, swallowing hard. “The humming. It’s driving me mad! It sounds like… like a tiny barbershop quartet singing sea shanties in a thimble!”
Dr. Schwartz leaned back, steepled her fingers, and said, “Well, Mr. Bartlett, after extensive testing, we’ve reached a conclusion.” She paused for dramatic effect, which Barnaby found deeply unsettling.
“We believe,” she continued, “the humming is coming from your hearing aid.”
Barnaby blinked, his eyes widening like saucers. He reached up, fumbled in his ear, and pulled out a tiny, intricately carved wooden device. It was undeniably a hearing aid, but it was also… a miniature, perfectly functioning, barbershop quartet singing sea shanties. A single, minuscule bass player even winked at him.
“Oh,” Barnaby whispered, staring at the tiny, singing musicians. “Right. Well, that explains it.”
