Trolling for the Truth

Once, a long ways back in my past, something happened to me that became widely publicized and is still being talked about today. I've been waiting every day of the couple of hundred years since that incident occurred for a chance to tell the world what a big misinterpretation of events the whole thing is. You see, I am a troll. My name is Olafermang Wentzel, but everyone calls me Olaf. Throughout history I've been portrayed as a villainous, brainless, blood-thirsty monster. I'd like you to get know the real me. I like to cook and consume fine, gourmet meals. I like to sit back in front of a warm fire with my pipe and a good book. I dabble in minor sorcery. I am a Pisces and currently single. It's important that I dispel any stereotypes that may have been passed along to you about who I am and what my habits are. Far too often when I tell someone who and what I am, they just run away screaming (the ones that don't run on sight that is). But I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes; it all started one fateful spring day. Drops of water landing on my rather large and bulbous nose had awakened me from my winter torpor and I blundered out of bed to figure out why, all the while spitting out blistering oaths at the top of my voice. It seems that the melting of the last of the snow had caused a leak in my roof. My roof is made of dirt because I live in a cave. Looking back on it now, I probably should have moved my bed away from the leak and crawled underneath the covers to continue my slumber. But hindsight is always 20/20.

Instead, I decided that, since I was already up, I might as well get an early start on the year. I started to move around and shake off the aftereffects of my sleep and I took care of some personal hygiene issues. Brewing a pot of hot coffee was probably the one bright spot of the day and I eagerly anticipated the results the savory concoction would grant me.

After polishing off two entire carafes of coffee, I was feeling pretty good and riding a fairly decent caffeine buzz ;-) I felt it was time for a little merriment and got out my set of bagpipes. I played a couple of raucous tunes before the damn things broke apart in my hands.

Needing some fresh air to accompany the coffee in the head-clearing process, I stepped out of my cave into the mild, sweet-smelling air. I headed down the bank outside of my cave to the stream and started to clean up. The brisk waters, which were formed from the mountain snowmelt, invigorated my body and I started to splash around in it, but before too long I was ready to get out. On my way back to shore, I encountered a large bullfrog. Almost unconsciously, I picked up the little morsel and popped him into my mouth.

This is where the story really starts to get interesting, so pay attention.

I was headed back home when I heard noise from the bridge that is right above the mouth of my cave. Trip, Trap, Trip, Trap. Instantly, I hailed a greeting and when I failed to get an answer I jumped up onto the bridge to meet the incoming company. As my eyes fell upon the small goat in front of me, the look on its face told me everything. The look of abstract horror brought everything back about myself that I had forgotten in my excitement at the prospect of having company. There I was, this huge, brown, hulking mass: breathing heavily from my frantic scramble up the bridge and naked as the day I was born. I asked him what he was doing and he stammered out some explanation about how there was better grass on the other side of the bridge and that if I wanted to eat someone that I should wait for the next goat to come across because he wasn't too big. I laughed heartily at his illusion of me wanting to eat him, let him pass to the other side, and went back underneath the bridge.

There I was, sitting under the bridge; I began to wonder what could have given the small goat the impression that I would want to eat him. Then I remembered my events of the morn. I had started with swearing aloud in my loudest voice, then came the horrible 'melodies' from the bagpipes, and finally, my obnoxious splashing in the stream. I started to chuckle to myself when I heard something from the bridge above. Trip, Trap, Trip, Trap . Again, I hailed a greeting, and getting the same lack of response, I hiked back up to the top of the bridge. This time the goat I encountered was bit larger than the first and had a kind of motherliness about her. I asked what she was doing and, again, I got an explanation about how there was better grass on the other side of the bridge. Being the genius that I am, I decided to explain everything about what had with the small goat to her so that they both would have nothing to worry about. I invited her to come with me down to my cave and started to make my way down. She decided that nothing but bad could come from the situation and ran past me on her way to the other side saying that I should wait for the next goat that would be crossing soon.

I figured that her skittishness and lack of responsibility were easily explainable --She was a female after all -- and I settled down to wait for the next goat. I knew this would be the dominant male and I reckoned that I could talk to him and get this whole mess cleared up. I heard a Trip, Trop, Trip, Trop and I once more hailed the greeting and once more I didn't get a response. Goats are sooo inconsiderate . So, I made the trip up to the top of the bridge to 'lock horns' with this fellow. When I got there this rather gruff-looking goat that immediately demanded to be able to pass to the other side confronted me. Not one to be easily goaded, I suggested that we talk about the afternoon's events over an early dinner. Apparently he misunderstood me and thought that I had said that I wanted to eat him for dinner. That's what he told the police anyway . Not knowing that he had mistaken what I had said, I turned my back to him when I started to go back down to prepare the food. As soon as I did he unmercifully rammed his horns into my posterior and caused me to fall all the way down to the water.

Well, after that everything went to Hell in a handbasket. The police showed up and took me into custody. They took statements from the goats, who lied like rugs ; the old lady at the top of the hill, who lived in this huge shoe with these little brats constantly running around ; and finally from yours truly. The old bitty from the shoe said she had a clear view of everything, even though everyone in the county knew that she had been in need of stronger glasses for at least three years at the time. So there we were my word against the words of the goodie-goodie goats and the bitch-in-the-boot. Well, you can all guess whom the police believed, and I was sent up the creek.

I spent 70 years in the State Pen for the various crimes that they fabricated. When I got out is when I heard about how those damn goats had bragged about beating me. That actually didn't bother me as much as when I found out how much they had embellished the details of the story.

So now, if anyone ever comes up to and asks if you know the story of The Three Billy Goats Gruff, you can say, "Yes, and I also know the truth."