Twizzler Beard: A Delicious Tragedy

    One morning, as I awoke from my anxious dreams of half-man, half-moose hybrid beasts, I discovered that on the pile of newspapers on which I sleep, my beard had been turned from a regular beard made of hair, to one made of Twizzlers candy straws. I lay there on my back, a cherry scent emanating from my sugary mustache, my sticky facial locks sticking to my upper chest, the dog chewing at my face rather contentedly.
    “What’s happened to me?” I thought. My beard supplies, now rendered useless by my metamorphosis, lay on my dresser: my beard comb, my beard wax, my beard blowdryer, all suited for a normal man’s beard. My trinkets, which I liked to carry around in my beard sat on the dresser as well, and I quickly realized that, unless I wished my trinkets to be forever sticky, I would have to find a new means of conveying them about town. “Oh well,” I thought. “At least I got all these Twizzlers.”
    I would quickly discover that the notion of a Twizzler beard, much like the Rodin sculpture composed of peanut butter (which was eaten by Nazis in 1943) or that fountain in Rome made of hot links (eaten by Visigoths in 327 CE), is tragic by its very nature--it's beauty being true but always ephemeral, and delicious. As the old timers say, “You can’t have your Twizzler beard and eat it too.”
    For breakfast, I ate the left side of my beard, and saved the right for lunch. I carefully tweezed off my Twizzler mustache and had that for dinner. By midnight, my Twizzler beard was but a memory. As I lay in bed that night, chewing on the goatee part of my Twizzler beard, the last remaining piece of my tasty candy beard, I pondered the meaning of this peculiar development:
    “Will my Twizzler beard ever grow back,” I wondered hopefully; “If so, will it come in different flavors, or will it remain the standard cherry?”; “Do girls like to eat Twizzlers?”
    And also: “My stomach hurts.”