I started telling this joke in 3rd period, but like many of my jokes, it requires at least ten minutes, and the bell rang. So for those of you who asked, here it is in it’s entirety. It was originally told to me by Amy when I was in college, but it has grown at least one minute longer and stranger for every year since then that I have told it…
The Sad Tale of the Trids
Once upon a time, there was a race of short, fuzzy creatures known simply as “Trids.” The Trids were a peaceful race of creatures, living pleasantly at the bottom of a great mountain, enjoying each other’s company, frolicking in the flower-filled meadows, and drinking plenty of berry-blue kool-aid.
But there were flowers to be frolicked in up on the mountain, too. And the trids were a slightly curious bunch, too, so one day they sent little Timmy Trid up the mountain to see what was up there.
Timmy Trid climbed long and hard for many days, until he came to the very tip-top of the mountain, and there he suddenly found himself face to face with a large, ugly, mean-looking creature with big feet. Timmy said fearlessly, “Who are you?” to which the creature replied in a booming voice:
“I AM GROG THE TERRIBLE. LEAVE THIS PLACE AT ONCE!”
“But Mr. Grog,” said Timmy, putting on his most adorable cute-face, “the mountain is big enough for us all to share, and we’re very friendly people–” Before he could even finish his sentence, Grog the Terrible let out a terrible laugh, lifted his big left foot, and kicked Timmy all the way down the mountain.
Needless to say, the Trids were very dissapointed. But Trids were optimists, and soon they decided that perhaps the Grog, who was rather large himself, would respond better to a Trid of somewhat larger size. So they sent up Olaf the Trid to negotiate the sharing of the mountain. Because he had a childhood fondness for chocolate-chip cookie dough, Olaf had grown up to be an incredibly hefty Trid, although he was still as good-natured and gentle as a lamb (a very, very well-fed lamb). Still, his “extra luggage” meant that traveling (especially uphill) was a slow process. Two months later, Olaf had finally waddled his way to the top of the mountain, and narrowly avoided waddling right into the infamous left foot of Grog the Terrible. Upon seeing Olaf, Grog let out a terrible laugh:
“HA HA HA HA HA HA–I AM GROG THE TERRIBLE. LEAVE THIS PLACE AT ONCE!”
Olaf, still panting to catch his breath, said “but…Mr…Grog…sir…we…just–” At this point, the Grog rolled his eyes, shrugged his mighty shoulders, and kicked Olaf all the way down the mountain. Olaf made faster time rolling down the hill than Timmy did, disproving Galileo’s theory that all objects accelerate at the same velocity, regardless of mass.
The Trids were now angry, and began to drink berry-blue koolaid in larger quantities than usual. They assembled an Army of Trids, calling on every man-trid, woman-trid, and child-trid to march with them up the mountain to put an end to the selfishness of the fearsome Grog once and for all. Stopping along the way only two or three times to allow Olaf time to catch his breath, the entire Trid Army reached the top of the mountain in just one week. Grog the Terrible looked somewhat surprised to see all the little Trids, but nevertheless regained his composure enough to boom in his terrible voice:
“I AM GROG THE TERRIBLE. LEAVE THIS PLACE AT ONCE.”
Almost spontaneously, the Trids began to chant, “Share! Share! Share!” bouncing up and down in agitation as they shouted in one voice, one spirit, one steadfast resolve. And then the mighty Grog kicked them all down the mountain, one at a time, laughing all the while.
By the time the last Trid had rolled down the mountain and back into the little Trid village, a general depression began to take hold of them. Some Trids cried openly, and some just beat their little heads against the ground in frustration and anguish. It was not a good day to be a Trid. Their situation seemed almost completly hopeless.
And then, just at their lowest moment, a Jewish Rabbi happened to wander by. No doubt it was their loud sobbing that caught his attention, and he came into the village to investigate further. “What troubles you so, my sweet little Trid-friends?” The Rabbi looked around him and saw nothing but despair. “Surely God has not abandoned you in your hour of need–is there nothing I can do to help?” At this, a dim light of hope began to form in the hearts of the Trids. If anyone could help them, it was the Rabbi–a man of God, a man of Wisdom, a man of Compassion for their terrible plight. The Trids proceeded to tell the Rabbi the story of the Terrible Grog who lived at the top of the mountain and refused to share with his neighbors. They told him of Timmy, and Olaf, and the Trid Army–how the Grog had kicked every one of them all the way down the mountain, and of his terrible booming laughter. If ever anyone could help them, surely it was the Rabbi.
The next day, of course, the Rabbi found himself alone, climbing up the mountain to face the Grog. “How did I get myself into this one?” he asked as he climbed. The Rabbi was a compassionate man, but not exactly courageous. And he certainly did not relish the idea of being kicked all the way down the mountain.
When he at last reached the top, the Grog was ready waiting for him, perched on the peak, staring at him with mean eyes. The Rabbi could not help but feel a cold shiver run down his spine. Nevertheless, he walked quietly forward and spoke:
“Oh great and terrible Grog, why have you persecuted the Trids? All they want is to share in your good fortune, to frolick in the mountain flowers, and drink berry-blue koolaid with you.” The Grog was silent, so the Rabbi continued. “Can you not find it in your heart to show them kindness? Could you not greet them with handshakes rather than kicking them all the way down the mountain?” Still, the Grog said nothing. After a long, awkward pause, the Rabbi said in a louder voice, “What do you have to say for yourself?” Grog the Terrible just sat there, as still as the stone of the mountain itself, although he followed the Rabbi intently with his terrible eyes. Finally, in desperation, the Rabbi went right up to the Grog, within inches of his hideous face. “Well? Say Something!” The frustration of the Rabbi was building inside him. “Come on you big bully, aren’t you at least going to KICK ME DOWN THE MOUNTAIN?”
Slowly, calmly, and with all the patience of the world written on his ugly face, Grog the terrible bent down, until his massive head was close enough so the Rabbi could smell his foul breath, and this is what he said:
“SILLY RABBI…KICKS ARE FOR TRIDS.”
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