The Third Billy Goat, Gruff – A Hilarious Retelling of the Classic Goat and Troll Tale

Let me tell you something right off the bat: you don’t get to be as big, as old, or as seasoned as I am without picking up a few lessons along the way. Little nuggets of wisdom, if you will. For example:

• Goats eat almost anything. Yeah, that one’s pretty accurate.

• The biggest guy usually wins. Well, that depends, but sure, sometimes.

• Don’t take no guff off nobody. Now that? That usually leads to a scuffle, but it’s a rule I live by.

• But the golden rule, the one I really swear by, is: Keep it simple.

That’s the trick to life, folks. Keep it simple, and you’ll find your way across even the trickiest of bridges—literally.

So, here’s how it all went down.

My brothers and I had been grazing in the same meadow for ages, chomping down grass like it was going out of style. But sooner or later, even the most fertile patch turns into a bald lawn. Across the river, though? There was a hill so lush, so green, it looked like Granny’s dinner table on Thanksgiving. We were eyeing it like a goat eyes an unattended garden.

One day, my kid brother Uff pipes up, “Hay!”

I look at him and say, “What?”

Again, he goes, “Hay!”

I sigh, “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

But Uff shakes his head and says, “No, look over there! That’s hay! I’m going over there to get me some.”

And off he trots. Brave little guy. But as soon as he steps on the old rickety bridge that crossed the river, wouldn’t you know it—out jumps this big-headed, snaggle-toothed troll from under the bridge. The troll’s got one good eye and a mouth loud enough to scare the crows off a scarecrow.

“This is my bridge!” the troll bellows. “And I’m gonna eat you for lunch!”

But Uff’s no dummy. He plays it smart. Makes a deal. He tells the troll, “Why settle for scrawny little me? Wait for my big brother. He’s way meatier.” Troll gets greedy, lets him pass.

Then my other brother, Ruff, gets the same idea. “Hay!” he says.

“I know, I know,” I tell him. “Uff already told me. Go get your grass.”

Ruff heads off, and sure enough, Troll jumps out again. But Ruff’s clever too—pulls the same trick. Promises a bigger, tastier goat is coming along. Troll, being the brainless oaf he is, lets Ruff pass too.

Now I’m watching all this and thinking, Hay, Self!

And my self says back, Yeah, yeah, it’s hay, I got ears.

So, I figure it’s my turn. Let’s see what this troll really thinks he’s got. I clomp onto the bridge, heavy hooves thudding on the planks, and guess who shows up? That’s right—the one-eyed bullhorn himself.

“HEY!” he sprays at me.

I glance around. “Yeah, I know it is,” I reply, deadpan.

He stares blankly. “What?”

“You said ‘Hey.’ I’m agreeing with you. There’s hay on the other side.”

He scowls. “No! I said HEY! As in, stop! This is my bridge!”

I give him my best What-am-I-stupid? look. “Then tell me—those two fellas who just crossed… what were their names? ‘No One’ and ‘No One,’ right?”

“Who?” he demands, starting to froth at the mouth.

“Exactly. No One. That’s what you said. ‘No one crosses my bridge.’ So if No One crossed, and No One crossed again, that must be them, right?”

His face turns purple. “You’re trying to confuse me!”

“Too late,” I grin.

“That’s it!” he explodes. The troll starts stomping, shaking the whole bridge, arms flailing like he’s fighting bees. “I’m gonna EAT YOU UP!”

He charges at me, gnashing his yellow teeth, fists flying like some midnight freight train.

But remember that rule? Keep it simple.

So I do.

I lower my head, get my horns just right, and hook that troll right over my shoulder like an old sack of potatoes. With one good toss, I send him flying off the bridge and splash! straight into the river.

Now here’s a fun fact for you: the idiot couldn’t swim. Seriously. Who lives under a bridge all their life without learning how to swim?

So off he washed, flailing and floundering downstream, probably yelling about goats and hay and No One, till he disappeared around the bend.

And me? I crossed the bridge and joined my brothers on the grassy hill, feasting like kings.

And that’s the truth of it. Simple, clean, and effective.

If anyone ever tries to tell you a different version of this story, just give them the old What-am-I-stupid? look—and don’t take no Gruff.

Moral of the Story

When faced with trouble, don’t complicate things—keep it simple, use your head (sometimes literally), and never take any guff from a loudmouth.