There were once three billy goats whose last name was "Griff." One early spring day, they decided to wander into the mountains to graze. In order to get to the mountains, however, they had to cross over a bridge. And, since there is always a troll living under bridges in these sorts of stories, there was a troll living under this bridge.
As the youngest of Griff billy goats began to cross the bridge, the troll snarled and shouted, "Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Who's that walking over my bridge?"
And the youngest Griff replied, "It's just me. Hubert Griff. The smallest of the billy goats Griff."
"And a fine meal you'll make!" trilled the troll, who was often given to trilling when his allergies were bothering him, which they did every spring.
"You don't want to eat me!" squealed Hubert.
"Do too!" said the troll.
"No, I mean--I have an older brother who is bigger than me. He'll be along in a bit. Eat him instead."
"Alright," muttered the troll.
Soon the second, middle-child billy goat Griff crossed the bridge.
"Trip-trap, trip-trap! Who's that walkin--"
"Oh! Knock it off, troll!" said the second goat, "Everybody's always picking on me! Nobody appreciates me for who I am or what I have accomplished! I'm always being compared to my older brother and I'm expected to be a good example to my younger brother, and I tell you, I've had it! Just don't mess with me, Buddy! I've got angst enough for three!"
"Ick!" spat the troll, "I wouldn't dream of eating you! Too bitter! But just to make sure I don't make the same mistake twice, what's your name?"
"Hubert. Yeah, it's Hubert! My parents weren't very imaginative, okay?"
"Okay! Sheesh! I'll just wait for your older brother."
In time, the third goat crossed the bridge. Being older and much larger, the bridge creaked and groaned with every step.
The troll waxed Shakespearean and expounded most dramatically, "Trippeth-trappeth! Trippeth-trappeth! Announce thyself, for thou shalt be my repast!"
"Er... My name is Hubert, (his parent really hadn't been very imaginative!) and... What was the rest of that?"
The troll started to reply, when the whole bridge collapsed beneath Hubert Griff's weight, killing him instantly. The eldest goat, however, being strong, climbed up the steep valley and up into the mountains to join his brothers.
And the three billy goats Griff remain on that mountain to this day, because bridge construction is very, very slow.
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2 comments:
Bridge construction is slow--unless the bridge's collapse causes a national uproar; then even three goats could probably get enough federal money thrown at their fallen bridge to get it rebuilt in a timely fashion. At least, that's the theory under which our local government here in Minneapolis is operating presently. We'll see if it's true or not. (Loved the story, though; especially its sterling example of Middle Child Syndrome. I've been there...)
Yup. The Billy Goats Griff don't garner the attention of their celebrity counterparts, the Billy Goats Gruff. If they did, the bridge would've already been rebuilt.
Fear not, though! I predict that it will soon be discovered that the bridge and its subordinate valley are federally-protected wild troll habitats, and it'll all be put back swiftly.
Try that angle in MN! Homeless trolls need a place to skulk!
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