How I Learned that Beards are Stupid...

Three beards for the three homeless men that live under the bridge.
Seven for the struggling writers who seem to be writing their dissertations for quite a long time...
Nine for the Mortal Men who think beards make them look "cool" and "sophisticated.
One for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his snake.
In the land of No-Shaving where the five o'clock shadows lie.
One beard to rule them all. One beard to find them.
One beard to grow forever and in the morning, shave them.
In the Land of Hogwarts where the Wizards lie.

This beard belongs to a man of pure beauty. A man who defies boundaries and pushes limits. A man that doesn't have to prove himself. This man is none other than the great Albus Dumbledore. His flowing, luxurious white beard hangs down from his face like a monkey hangs gracefully from a tree branch (except, in this case, Dumbledore's beard is well picked and free of bugs).

I, SlimShaney, once tried to grow out a beard. It was....unsuccessful. I figured that I would grow out a goatee. Once it had grown long enough, I noticed that goats were following me everywhere! I tried to run, but their leader, Ba-Ba Black Goat, cornered me in a dark alleyway. He told me, if I didn't shave off my goatee, they would have to do it for me. I panicked. What was I to do? I couldn't shave off my goatee! I loved it! So, I did the only thing I could think of, I used magic. I cast a spell that made my beard invisible to the human/goat eye. The next day, the goats came to my house. "Where's your beard?" said Ba-Ba Black Goat. "I shaved it off. I'm done with facial hair." They didn't believe me. Black Goat grabbed my face and felt that I still had my goatee. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed my mother. He put his mouth up to her neck and said, "If you don't shave off that beard, I'm going to bite her. Rabies ain't somethin' you wanna mess with, kid." Again, I did the only thing I knew how to do. I pulled out my wand, cast a deadly spell, and suddenly, guts were flying everywhere! I narrowly dodged the tongue of one of the goats as it raced past my head. My mother was soaked in goat blood. We embraced in our slimy, putrid clothes and began to collect the shattered remains of the goats I had killed. That night, as we sat around the table, thinking about what had happened, I asked my mom, "Do you like my goatee?" She merely shoved some goat meat in her mouth and said, "No."

And that is why beards are stupid.