One day, Bub, Babi, and Ber sat at the breakfast table having dinner… 

“There nothing in life like six-week rotted holehog,” Bub said. Drool streamed from one corner of his mouth. His clublike fingers clenched the torso of an animal best described as part boar and part walrus, accessorized with four pairs of enormous tusks and extra whiskers. 

Bub smiled at Ber, his toddler in training. “You want take bite, Ber? Holehog yummy.” 

Ber wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “No no! No hog.” 

“What you want, then?” 

Babi groaned. “Bub, can you stop talking like that? You sound like an idiot!” 

“Bub do what Bub want. Speak in Old Troll my cultural right. Stop oppressing Bub.” 

The cave walls shook as Babi growled in exasperation. “Whatever.” 

Bub dangled the holehog carcass in front of Ber. “What you say, buddy? Eat? Please?” 

“No. Only tinny.” Ber pointed to a crude jar resting on a large stone cabinet. 

Bub scowled disapprovingly. “No candy. Cabbage rot stomach. Turn Ber into pipol.” 

“Pi-po?” 

“That right, son. Pipol. Fresh Brussel sprout cave troll candy. But if troll eat too much, turn into pipol. Can never change back. Sometimes, amateurish pipol make passable internet troll or toll booth operator. That it.” 

Ber nodded, staring wide-eyed at his dad. He was so enthralled that the wormberry jam in his hand soon coated opposite sides of his face and the top of his head. 

The author would like to note that the berries in question are acquired from the worm’s posterior end. A byproduct of soil digestion, if you will. The troll palate is quite… distinct. 

Bub took a deep breath and spoke in the most professorial Old Troll accent he could muster. “It magic. See, troll special creature. Better than pipol. If troll eat good troll diet, do proper troll occupation, remember troll culture and history, then live good long life as magnificient troll. But, if eat too much rotten meat and live like animal, then troll become gnoll. And if sit around think too much, make simple thing too complex, and eat too much vegetable because too lazy to hunt, then end up as pipol.” 

Ber giggled every time his dad said the word ‘pipol.’ Babi sighed and rolled her eyes. 

“Mom think she know better, but Ber listen Dad. Truth is, troll become what troll behave. Act like animal, become dog-monster. Eat cabbage like stinky elf, become weak-puny pipol. This also why pipols like dogs so much. They closer cousins than like to admit. Pipols not so smart, after all. Like this dumb author pipol. He put picture for this story of cavemen pipols. Totally not trolls! They are pipols.” 

Ber’s infectious giggling soon swept the entire room up in laughter. Even the slightly offended author, who has since corrected the photo in question. 

What’s the Point? 

Other than having a little fun, the simple point is this: 

Culture isn’t inherited or adopted—it’s cultivated and must be sustained. Like Bub said, “Troll is what troll behave.” If we as Americans feel our culture is waning, then we should work diligently and with great focus to develop and strengthen it. We can set the foundation for renewal through our daily actions, through informing ourselves and our families, and through deep convictions rooted in our American cultural traditions.