Once upon a time, a gentle troll named Steve lived under a stone bridge on the outskirts of a small Wisconsin farming community.  He cared for the bridge each day, sweeping away debris and mending the wobbly parts.  The lowing cattle and singing birds soothed his soul, and it would have been paradise except for one problem:  those troublesome goats.

They called themselves “the Goats Gruff” and regularly harassed him and nearby forest animals.  At first only Frederick, the youngest goat, came to shout insults.  “Hey troll!” he shouted from his side of the bridge.  “Scared any babies today with that ugly face?”

Initially, Steve tried to educate the young goat.  “Bridge trolls don’t associate with babies,” he explained patiently, dismissing the goat’s glare as youthful arrogance.  “We stay with our bridges and socialize with the forest animals.  You’re probably thinking of goblins.  They’re known for tormenting small children.”  He wished this Gruff gang would invest in their personal hygiene – the barnyard stink was unbearable.

“Whatever,” sneered the young goat.  “Let me over the bridge.  I want the grass over there.”

“I’m happy to allow you to cross once you pay the toll,” said Steve pleasantly.  “But I’ve snacked on the grass from both sides, and I can tell you that the flavor is about the same.  You don’t need to waste your money.”

“Toll?” the young goat sputtered.  “I ain’t paying no toll!”

“It’s a historic site,” Steve explained, growing annoyed.  “The community toll helps maintain the bridge and pay for the cost of repairs and preventive maintenance.  I’m afraid you’ll have to eat the grass on your own side of the bridge if you can’t pay the toll.”

“There ain’t no grass on this side anymore!  We ate it all!”

“All of it?” Shocked, he fell silent.  How could three goats eat entire fields full of grass?  Did they have some sort of glandular disorder which caused them to overeat?  He scrutinized the young goat, who did look a bit pudgy.

“Loser!” snorted the goat.  “I’ll be back with my big brother, who’ll teach you a lesson!”   He stomped off, kicking dirt onto the freshly-swept bridge.

“What was that guy’s problem?” said Steve’s friend, Angelo the Muskrat.  He’d popped his head out of his lodge when he heard the ruckus.

“I don’t know,” sighed Steve.  “Probably just an ignorant kid with nothing better to do.”

But as the weeks went by, Frederick’s behavior worsened.  His insults grew more vulgar, his dirt-kicking more deliberate and targeted at the hardest-to-clean spots.  One day when Steve, Angelo, and Geraldine the Pheasant were having a Sunday picnic, a larger, unfamiliar goat appeared.  He didn’t say much as towered and glowered at the foot of the bridge.

Not wanting to inconvenience a customer, Steve leaped to his feet.  “Can I help you?” he asked, brushing the crumbs from his belly.  Then his shoulders sagged;  he saw Frederick lurking smugly behind the new goat.

“Lemme over the bridge!”  shouted the big goat.

“Please!” said Steve.  “There’s no need to shout.  You’re disturbing the wildlife.”  Geraldine did indeed look distraught as she hid behind the picnic basket.  “I’m happy to let you cross if you pay the 75 cent toll.”

“I’m Bartholomew Gruff, and I don’t pay no tolls!”

“Tell him there’s a fine from the Department of Transportation if he refuses to pay,” whispered Angelo, who had joined Geraldine behind the picnic basket.

“Sir, there’s a one hundred dollar fine if you don’t pay the toll,” Steve sighed.

The goat stomped his hoof on the ground.  “They can’t make me pay a fine!”

“Actually, they can,” said Steve.  “You just told me your name and I know perfectly well where you live.  The city has a “Green Mowing” program to reduce gasoline use when trimming roadsides and medians.  They employ goats to eat the grass instead of using lawnmowers.  It’s an environmentally-friendly solution to unwanted grass growth.  You can read about it in the daily paper.  Often goats are put into the program when they’ve disobeyed the law, so–”

“Shut up!” shouted Bart.  “I’ll be back, you puny troll!  You’ll be real sorry when I bring my big brother!  Socrates is gonna kick your ass!”

“Oh Lord,” said Geraldine, climbing into the picnic basket in terror as the goat stomped away.

“Socrates?” asked Angelo.  “Socrates? I did not just hear that bully describe a member of his family as ‘Socrates’!”

“You did,” sighed Steve as he watched the goat’s large, swiftly-retreating posterior, with Frederick trotting after.  His eyes filled with humiliating images of broken bridges, bloody muskrats, and dead, brown grass.  He hung his head;  the bridge, which had stood for over 100 years, was in danger because of his ineffective management skills and inability to deal with local hooligans.

He didn’t get much sleep that night.  He tossed and turned in his bed of moss, hoping for a miraculous visitation by an angel with all the answers.  None arrived.  In the morning, he blearily arose and walked to the creek.  As he gazed at his warbling reflection, he thought of his grandfather, who had manned a similar bridge during World War One and had seen much worse than a couple of bully Goats Gruff.

“Stevie Boy,” he said to his reflection, “It’s time to grow a spine!  You have allies.  You have guts, and brains!  You know what to do!  Send a Geraldine with a message to Jimmy at the WDOT!”  He scribbled the situation on a scrap of paper and ran to Geraldine’s den.  The pheasant flew into action, heading towards the Department of Transportation’s headquarters.

And that is why, on the eve of March 17th, the Wisconsin Department of Transportation shackled an exceptionally large goat, along with two smaller and more vocal goats, and transported them to the city Goat Mowing program.  Socrates had time to roar only the phrase “SOCRATES NO PAY TOLL!” and place his tremendous weight on the bridge’s first plank, which shattered, before the city officials and the police department fell upon him with tranquilizers and cuffs.  As the Brothers Gruff were carted away to the holding facility, which was surrounded by tasteless, exhaust-covered grass, Steve smiled.  Intelligent thought and peaceful camaraderie had overcome violence, and the guilty would be re-educated and made to benefit society through their punishment.  All was well in the world of a gentle bridge troll.

…OR WAS IT? Only time shall tell.  The Goat Mowing program is overcrowded, and inmates are often released early on so-called “good behavior.”  It is a well-researched fact that Goat Mowers return to their community with better criminal skills and a desire for revenge.  Frederick was actually sent to the Juvenile Mower program and sentenced to only one month.  He is sure to be angry that he was not only imprisoned, but that his big brothers received harsher Mowing sentences and languish in the confines of the Mowing Pen.  And with nothing to do but mow and work out, the Goats Gruff are likely to be heavily muscled.

What can be done?

Holy crap, I think I just depressed myself with my own story here.  Come on, Splarks, you have to save this one.  Give it some hope, right?  Make sure that readers don’t finish the story with a sense of despair in the injustice of the world.  Um ….so while in the Mowing Pen, the Goats Gruff experienced a miraculous transformation!  One day, a group of Buddhist outreach workers came to the Pen.  They told the story of the Buddha and showed that totally unbelievable but undeniably flashy Keanu Reaves movie.  The goats were fascinated:  could the cause of their suffering truly be desire?  The desire for grass, the desire for revenge, the desire to hold power over the weak–was it all just maya, or illusion?  Could true happiness be gained not in beating the crap out of small animals and feeling special because of it, but in clearing the mind and experiencing the Buddha nature?  The answer is YES!  Frederick, convinced that he was the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama (“Goats are kinda like llamas, ok?” he explained to anyone who would listen), began consciously practicing mindfulness.  The forest animals were shocked when Frederick smiled and bowed to them.  He spent long hours meditating in a corner of a barn, chanting something that sounded suspiciously made up.  Determined to learn the advanced arts of yoga and meditation, Bart left on a pilgrimage to India, which he was pretty sure was east of Minnesota.  And Socrates found it easiest to reach a pure state of bliss, being unused to thinking in the first place.

The bridge was safe.  All was well in the small Wisconsin town, and a very happy bridge troll resumed his life of picnics, morning walks, and bridge maintenance.

***

It’s true!  There really is a Goat Mowing program.  Most famous is Google’s goat program. My city, Boulder, has been doing this for awhile.  I thought I was hallucinating the first time I saw a bunch of goats chowing down at the side of the road.  Seriously!  Does anyone else live in a city where they do this?

Artist Aria Nadii has a fabulous Capricorn (the Goat symbol in the Zodiac) piece.

I love comments.  If you comment, a little love goes to you!

Tags: Random Amusement by splarks
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I don’t have a real backstory for this one.  I just happened to see a photo of a giant isopod, which was all the inspiration I needed.

It’s story time for children!  Today we’re going to learn about giant isopods, which live in the deep, cold Atlantic ocean and can grow to be over a foot long.  They are not fish, but crustaceans.  Huge, nasty crustaceans that might make you vomit when you see them.  Here, look at this picture:

(I’m sorry to make you vomit.  I, too, am feeling a bit queasy as I write this story.)

But you see, isopods are Mother Earth’s creatures, too, so we musn’t shun them.  Millicent was a special giant isopod.  Beyond her vomit-evoking powers, she had one impressive talent:  she could sing opera.  Opera is a type of music, and some people think that if brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans or liver made a sound, it would be opera.  Other people find opera to be fancy;  they probably enjoy brussels sprouts, boiled lima beans and liver.  The only problems with Millicent’s amazing skill is that giant isopods do not have the vocal cords that allow them to sing, nor do they have the brain capacity to learn Italian, German, or any other language in which opera might be sung.  She also would not have fit well into the costumes–dreadful poofy things that would have swallowed her figure.

You might ask how she knew she could sing opera, or how she knew what opera was at all, given that she lived in the deep sea and had no contact with human beings.

She just knew, perhaps from some psychic ability.  She could feel her unsung arias welling up within her.  She may have been remembering a past life in which she was Maria Callas, the famous opera singer.  It is rumored that in her efforts to lose weight, Maria Callas swallowed a tape worm*, something about as hideous as a giant isopod.  A psychic link may have been forged based on mutual disgustingness.  One never knows.

So what’s a giant isopod to do?

She pondered this while crawling the ocean floor, snacking on squid and sponges.  For many days and nights (it was all the same to Millicent, given that she lived at the bottom of the ocean), she passionately meditated and prayed for knowledge of the one thing that would let her fulfill her creative dreams.  One blessed day, the answer came to her like a divine revelation shooting into her exoskeleton:  get a new body, preferably one with vocal cords.  But how?  Science had repeatedly failed at providing people with new bodies, so it was no help.  Fortunately for Millicent, paranormal enthusiasts were not so easily discouraged.

Do you know what a paranormal enthusiast is, kids?  No?  Well I’m just going to say this:  put a bunch of  paranormal enthusiasts in a box with some scientists.  You don’t have to shake it or anything –the carnage ensues naturally.  ”What’s carnage?” is an excellent question for Mommy and Daddy.

Anyway, our friend Millicent swam daringly to the surface of the ocean as she saw a boat drift by.  Several people were huddled on the deck around a group of candles and incense.  She stared, fascinated.  Here were the weird tall things that lived in the horrible air.  She’d heard other sea animals speaking about them, but she was never convinced that such beings actually existed.  But there they were, a whole pack of them crowded around a large woman in a turban.  The boat rocked and the woman called out to the waters.

“Oh great spirits, we have traveled here today for your counsel!  Above these cold waters, we beseech you to arise from your oceanic grave and speak!  Enter into this purified body of this medium, Madame Slapinski, and impart your wisdom!”  At this point, the woman threw back her head and rolled her eyes deeply.  You see, a medium is a special type of paranormal enthusiast who is like a hotel for disembodied spirits.  The spirits hang out inside the medium’s body and talk to the people listening.  Usually the spirits are kind enough to answer questions, but occasionally they only want to shout nasty words and do funny dances.  They might also say a lot of things like “my child” and “why do you not hear the screams of your Mother Earth?”  The less tolerant ones will say things like, “Where’s my bottle of rum, $#!$@&?”

Millicent looked around her and saw no spirits clamoring to enter the medium.  In fact, there appeared to be a vacancy.  “Well,” thought Millicent, “Since no one else is waiting …”  She closed her eyes in imitation of the woman, and instantly found herself outside her body and face-to-face with the medium’s spirit.  Millicent, too, was a natural medium!

“Aaaaagh!” shrieked Madame Slapinski soundlessly when she saw the spirit of the giant isopod.

“What?” asked Millicent in irritation.  “Aaaaaagh” was a dreadful aria;  apparently mediums were not musically gifted.

“Hideous creature from the deep!” moaned Madame.

“How rude!” thought Millicent.  She thought the medium was rather unattractive as well–she had only two arms, for goodness’ sake!–but she didn’t go around pointing it out.  Millicent had good manners, like I hope you do, too, children.

“You may not pass!  Get thee behind me!” Slapinski ordered.

“Okay,” said Millicent, and crawled behind her as instructed, where her body lay vacant.  What a bizarre thing to demand, she thought as she settled into the medium’s body.  Millicent was nauseated just being in it!  It was all soft and squishy, with no protection at all.  Why, anyone could come along and gnaw on it.  The teeth were virtually non-existent, the claws pathetic, and it smelled dreadful.  But yes, yes!  There were the vocal cords.  She coughed and wheezed for a few moments while the humans around her waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, she began.  At this point, I should share Wagner’s opera “Tristan und Isolde” with you, for this is what she sang.  However, I do not like brussels sprouts, and I positively loathe boiled lima beans.  Therefore, I will direct you to this lovely page on Wagner’s famous opera:  http://wagneroperas.com/indextristan.html.  Go on, explore the joy of opera.  Now look back at the picture above.  It may seem revolting to you, but I assure you that Millicent was in ecstasy.  Her newfound voice quivered with exquisite vibrato.  She thrust her arms wide as she filled her lungs with air, once such a horrible thought.  As her voice rose above the ocean waves, her small audience grasped each other in awe.

“What … what can this mean?”  whispered Everett, Madame Slapinski’s assistant.

“Hush, Everett!” said Mathilda, a devoted Slapinski disciple.  “I didn’t know she could sing so beautifully.”

“I didn’t either,” said Marcus, a would-be paramour of Madame’s.  (You will need to look up “paramour” in the dictionary.  I don’t want to get into it during story hour.) “Come to think of it, I heard her singing Madonna’s ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ in the shower last week, and it was dreadfully off-key.  Sounded a bit like Alvin and the Chipmunks, actually.”

Blissfully unaware of the reaction of her audience, Millicent sang on against the backdrop of the frigid Atlantic ocean, candles wafting smoke around her.  Then, a tapping on her shoulder stopped her.  It was Madame Slapinski’s spirit, and she was not amused.

“Foul Beast,” Slapinski said, her astral eyebrows twisting disdainfully, “While I must admit that your knowledge of opera and skill at singing are truly magnificent, I insist that you return my body to me.”

Milicent paused.  She was finally living her dream.  Was she really obligated to vacate the medium’s body?

“I refuse to be possessed by a giant sea-bug!” screeched Slapinski.  “If I’m going to be possessed, it better be some impressive arch-demon!  I call upon the Angelic Hosts, the Archangel Michael, the–”

And suddenly, Millicent found herself back in her own body.  While her exoskeleton was infinitely more comfortable, she mourned her loss of vocal cords.  The shadow of the boat passed over her, taking with it Madame Slapinski and her only chance of singing.  She cried miserably, except that giant isopods can’t really cry, so really it was just some shuddering and stomping.  A bright light appeared before her:  Madame Slapinski’s spirit had returned!

“Loathsome insect,” she said imperiously, “I heard your deep-sea wails and despite your hideous visage, I feel compassion for your plight.  I have one small hint for you:  it is called ‘the zoo.’  I shall say no more.”

Fortunately, that was all Millicent needed.  She had absorbed a lot of human knowledge during her brief journey to Madame Slapinsky’s body.  A zoo was a place where animals lived to entertain human beings.  Many, many humans visited the zoo each day and according to the vast archives of information in Madame Slapinsky’s mind, everyone is psychic.  Most people simply don’t know it.

Millicent practically salivated as she thought of the opportunity.

“Thank you, Madame Slapinski!” said Millicent.  The next day she strategically placed herself in the nets of an American scientific expedition and within two weeks, she was transported to a zoo in New England.  Zoo officials were puzzled at the sudden increase in spontaneous operatic singing by zoo patrons, who burst into magnificent song and then shivered outside the Deep Sea exhibit, curiously reluctant to go near the giant isopod enclosure.  The giant isopod, however, seemed inordinately interested in humans.  Some zoo patrons even insisted that the curious creature … smiled.

THE END!  Try not to get possessed by hideous sea bugs, kids!

*Highly unlikely, of course.

Tags: Bizarre Animal Stories, Religious Peril by splarks
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