How To Grow A Beard And Start A Revolution…
Let your beard grow. Actually I guess step one should be “be physically able to grow one.” Seriously though, stop shaving for six weeks. Mark it on a calender somewhere if you drink a lot.
Use shampoo, not hand soap, and rinse your beard really, really thoroughly. The soap, or lack of washing, is what makes it itchy.
After six weeks you can start trimming your beard — carefully — it took six fucking weeks to grow the damn thing so plan it out. And for fucks sakes, keep it off your neck. A beard is meant to conceal the evil in compliment your face not act as a hair transition from your forehead to your pubic area. Remember, it takes a few months until your beard is fully grown.
Sit back and wait for the checks to roll in. Yes, beards pay dividends.
Count the money, slowly.
Lay it out on a bed and nail your new trophy wife, Annette Bening, on all that frigging money.
Buy the poor. That’s right, by now you’ll have enough money to buy all the frigging poor people.
Make all the poor people grow beards, even the women and children… especially the women and children.
Wait six weeks.
Take your recently purchased army of recently-bearded poor people and any remaining funds and take jazz-dance lessons: it is vital you learn “jazz hands”, all the rest is useless. In fact just tell the teacher to only teach “jazz hands” to you and your army of bearded poor people, the rest of jazz dancing is just fucking retarded (note: if the check frequency has dropped off using a good conditioner on your beard will get the money flowing again).
Buy red jump suits for your entire bearded army of poor people.
If you’ve done everything right by this point you should have a whole lot of bearded poor people standing around, kind of bent at the waist and knees, with their arms outstretched just a little and bent at the elbows, flailing their hands while dressed in red uni-jump suits. If you don’t have this, or something just doesn’t feel right, just go back and repeat Step Six but this time really go to town with your trophy wife, Annette Bening… like seriously funky shit, like let her try a strap-on and you be the catcher, or midgets. Or midgets with strap-ons, I don’t know… Internet stuff.
While your army of recently-bearded poor people are ‘jazz-handing’ in red uni-jump suits you have to be on some sort of podium, something just high enough so you can see the back row of your army of recently-bearded poor people so you should be, minimum, thirty or forty feet high.
Stand perfectly upright, but really really still. Look out at your army of recently-bearded poor people without really seeing them.
Wait. It will all become self-evident soon.
You’ve got the biggest beard, you’ve bought the poor, you’ve forced them to resemble your beauty, you’ve got them doing some seriously weird shit at your whim, Hollywood has-beens are tickling your penis, you’ve been gangbanged by midgets with strapons and now you’re ignoring the plight of your people. Mr. Chavez will be contacting you shortly.