Once upon a time, there were three goats that had to cross a bridge.
There was a baby goat, who didn’t think anything online was for real, and there was a daddy goat, who was immune to anything shocking, and then there was the grandfather goat, who started out on Usenet back in 1984. And under the bridge, there was a mean old troll.
The baby goat walked to the bridge first. “Who’s that jerkface there?” said the troll. “You sound so small. Clearly your ideas have no merit.”
“It is I!” said the baby goat. “And you are a ______ ______ ____ ________ !”
“Wow!” said the troll. “Those are terrible words! And you’re just a baby goat! Where did you learn to talk like that? That’s horrible! How can you talk like that?”
“X-Box, you ______! Hey, how about you ____ my _____ ______ _______?” The troll just covered his ears and waved the baby goat on. He didn’t want to hear such filth!
Then the father goat came to the bridge. “Who’s that jerkface there?” said the troll. “Some hipster manchild too focused on pop culture to have any real ideas?”
“Wow, man, you sure nailed me,” said the father goat. “Hey, I wonder if you could help me, though. I wrote some Star Wars fan fiction, maybe you could critique it? Here’s the link.”
The troll followed the link, happy for a chance to further ridicule the father goat. But then, a hundred million tiny windows opened up! And emails appeared, going to every name in his address book! And a voice yelled out HEY, EVERYBODY! I’M GIVING AWAY MY BRIDGE FOR FREE! The troll scrambled to close them all and save himself from embarrassment and possible lawsuits as the father goat chuckled and crossed the bridge. “That’s how we did it back in my day, you n00b!” the father goat called back to the troll. “See ya!”
The troll sighed fiercely as the father goat walked away. But then, there were the heavy, slow footsteps of a grandfather goat! The troll was so happy! “Who’s that jerkface there?” said the troll, confident in an easy victory. “Shouldn’t you be taking a nap this time of day? Maybe listening to some Glenn Miller?”
The grandfather goat let out a snort. “Look,” he said. “I understand you’re protective of your bridge. I get that. You’re gonna do all sorts of stuff to protect your turf. But it’s really gonna save us both a lot of time if you just look in this dossier right now.”
The troll took the dossier and opened it. Inside was a long list of all the troll’s private information. His real name, his address, his mother’s maiden name, his school records, a few photos he’d taken at a carnival back in 1968, some dental records, the name of the place where he got his feet waxed, his Trollcial Security Number, even a list of every song he’d ever played on any jukebox ever. The troll closed the dossier and handed it back to the grandfather goat, waving him through in silence.
“Much obliged,” said the grandfather goat.
With a huff, the troll sat down in the mud under the bridge. Then, slowly, a smile came to his face. Within moments, his Trollbook wall read “LOL scared off three lamzor goats today. They sure won’t be back any time soon. Bridge: secure.” Feeling victorious, the troll stretched out for a nice, long nap.
Wear this shirt: when feeling Grimm.
Don’t wear this shirt: if your name is Rumpelstiltskin. That’s too well known now. Remember, a successful troll uses a different name on every board.
This shirt tells the world: “I can only be killed with fire! But not flames. It’s sort of tricky, but there’s a difference.”
We call this color: Black Sheep
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