The Kazoo Conundrum
Barnaby Butterfield awoke not to the gentle hum of his internal monologue, but to a persistent, reedy 'BWAAAH!' vibrating somewhere behind his left eyeball. He sat bolt upright, clutching his head. 'What in the name of all things un-brass is that?' he silently demanded, only to have the thought itself translated into a tinny, vibrating 'Bwaaah-bwaaah-BWAH-bwAAAH!'
His usual mental landscape, a sophisticated tapestry woven from existential dread and urgent reminders to buy more artisanal cheese, had been utterly usurped. Every attempt at coherent introspection now resulted in a cacophony of 'BWAAAAAH-bwah-bwah-bwaaah!' He tried to recall if he’d perhaps swallowed a particularly enthusiastic kazoo in his sleep. No. This was *inside*. Deep inside. Probably nested somewhere near his hippocampus, performing miniature, unsolicited concertos.
He staggered to the bathroom, catching his reflection. His eyes darted about, frantic. 'Am I finally going mad?' he wondered, and instantly, his brain serenaded him with a rapid-fire, slightly off-key 'BWAAAH-BWAH-BWAAAH!' He poked his ear with a Q-tip, which only provoked a defiant 'BWAAAH!' He tried to compose a grocery list: 'Milk, eggs, artisanal cheese...' 'BWAAAH-BWAAAH-BWAH!' It was utterly useless. His internal dialogue was now an external monologue of pure, unadulterated kazoo-ation.
His wife, Penelope, entered, humming a jaunty tune. 'Morning, dear,' she chirped. Barnaby tried to respond, but all that emerged from his cranium was a silent, yet deafening, symphony of 'BWAAAAAAH-BWAAAAH-BWAAAAH!' He clutched his throat, silently screaming, a vibrant 'BWAAAH-BWAAAH-BWAH!' echoing through his very being.
'Are you alright, Barnaby?' she asked, sensing his distress. He tried to nod, but his internal kazoo just played a mournful 'bwahhhhhhh.' He then tried to explain, focusing intensely on the words. Instead, his inner band launched into a surprisingly accurate, albeit kazoo-filtered, rendition of 'Flight of the Bumblebee.'
Penelope, a woman of infinite patience and a deep, unsettling appreciation for the avant-garde, simply smiled. 'Well,' she said, 'at least it's not the Vuvuzela.' Barnaby, his internal kazoo now performing a flawless, if slightly nasal, 'Ode to Joy,' slumped against the sink. He supposed it *could* be worse. But not by much. He spent the rest of the day attempting to hum his thoughts, occasionally hitting a particularly melodic 'BWAAAH!' that startled passersby and caused a flock of pigeons to spontaneously perform a synchronized aerial ballet.