The Sylvester

     The quorum had formed, the banner unfurled, the testing, testing, one-two-three – completed and the second annual “Baldies Are People Too” meeting began without a hitch. It was only after the formal lectures, announcements and notices had been read, after the first and second “Thoughts from our Members” speakers had taken the stage, when things went slightly off.
     The third “Thought” had moved quickly to the stage, found the dais almost incidentally, and then with automatic finesse nearly swallowed the microphone in a rush that made it appear he was being arrested instead of offering a few solemn words about balding.
     “This!” he blurted, pointing to his head, “this must be equalized – harmonically! In harmony! With…” quick gestures to all points head, knees, backside – held a shod foot up and pointed to the weak rubber sole – “This! – and this! – and… THIS!”
     “Who is this imbecile?” whispered the BaldieMaster into the fleshy ear beside his.
     “Uniformity! Synthesis!” Blurted the lunatic as he threw off his jacket.
     He molested the buttons down the dingy yellow shirt while his tone became threatening, “Collaborative unity! That’s what has been missing! We have this!?” pointing to the shiny head.
     “I don’t recall him,” said the second.
     “He seems to be missing eyebrows – eyelashes – I can see that from here,” said the BaldieMaster.
     And then the pants, after the shirt, the pants, and with one finger, the tighty-whities. “AH-HA!” said the mad-man, to an unexpected round of sudden applause and then, as suddenly, dead silence.
     “I call this, The Sylvester!!”
     “Why, he’s shaved clean from head to toe!” exclaimed the second’s wife with more than a hint of appreciation.
     “Including toes!” replied the psychopath. “I have shaved my ears, my knuckles, my back, my kneecaps – I have shaved,” he gloated loudly, “my own ass!” and he turned around, disappeared behind the dais, and re-appeared, inverted with head between legs, to the left, and then to the right, with index finger plugging his enthusiasm –
     “Get this moron off the stage!” shouted the BaldieMaster. “Now!”
      But not one baldie stepped up to the command. The man, we never learned his name, he was never seen again, up-righted himself, at his leisure, as if alone, and with the same casual, humming attitude, dressed, took a bow, and skipped off stage and without looking back exited the main entrance via the center red carpeted aisle of the silent auditorium.

     Remember the Sylvester.