Roscoe

Roscoe and the Fum

Roscoe, carrying his valise along the road, came upon an aged billygoat who resembled Elisha. “You may be a goat,” Roscoe said, “but your death doesn’t make sense.”

“Try looking at Pamela’s grab for Gilby as a paternity suit,” the goat said.

“Ah! So you did fall into Pamela’s clutch.”

“You think so? What’s her leverage in threatening a dead goat?” And the goat sniffed at Roscoe’s valise. “What’s in this?”

“It could be money, it could be rocks,” Roscoe said. “My question is, Why do I have all this pain?”

“Pain,” said the goat, “is the only music you ever dance to.”

“I’m tired of it,” Roscoe said. “I must upgrade life.”

“Upgrade life again?” The goat smiled. “Have you heard of the fum?”

“The fum? I have not.”

“The fum,” said the goat, “is a musical instrument that predates the Aeolian pipes. You string clavichord wire across the asshole of a dead cat, and you play it by picking its strings with your teeth. And, Roscoe, I believe if you thought it would improve your condition you’d start practicing the fum.”

“I’m in no position to argue. Care for a treat?” Roscoe put a Hershey bar in the mouth of the goat, who ate the wrapper, spat out the chocolate.

“Cakey action don’t kibble at the Café Newfay,” the goat said.