Roscoe

Roscoe in the Wind

That year an ill wind blew over the city and threatened to destroy flowerpots, family fortunes, reputations, true love, and several types of virtue. Roscoe, moving along the road, felt the wind at his back and heard the windblown voices.

“Do you know where the ill wind comes from, Roscoe?” the voices asked him.

“No,” he said, “but I’m not sure the wind is really ill. Its illness may be overrated, maybe even fraudulent.”

“Do people think there’s such a thing as a good ill wind?” they asked.

“Of course,” he answered. “And when it comes it billows the sails of our city, it nourishes our babies, comforts our aliens, gives purpose to our dead, tranquilizes our useless, straightens our crooked, and vice versa. The ill wind is a nonesuch and demands close attention.”

“Why should we believe what you say?”

“As I am incapable of truth,” Roscoe said, “so am I in capable of lying, which is, as all know, the secret of the truly successful politician.”

“Are you a politician, Roscoe?”

“I refuse to answer on grounds that it might degrade or incriminate me.”