The Eighth Page


To most people, coloring is an activity left to the young and simple, but to me it is an activity left to the young and simply awesome. Now, I know you might be asking yourself “What makes coloring so wonderful and so damn splendiferous?” Well, Mr. College Admissions Officer (There aren’t any women admission officers, right?), I plan to answer that question right here, right now. It’s game time, sugar-lips. I first began coloring at the same time I got my first tricycle. Yes, the ripe old age of 13. I was walking through the local library searching for the book “Paper Mache For Dummies” when I stumbled upon what I later came to know as a “coloring book.” I was immediately hooked – the glory days had begun. My room was soon filled with hundreds of these newly discovered coloring books and Applebee’s Kid’s Menus. It constantly stunk of Magic Markers and determination. To me, coloring was not a hobby; it was a passion. No ifs, ands, or buts about it—I was officially a colorer. I loved to color. Coloring was my life. I enjoyed coloring. When I saw lines, my immediate reaction was to color them like they’ve never been colored before. And after that, I’d color the living crap outta’ them some more! But my love for the art soon became a big problem in my life. I would walk through preschools kicking children, just in the hope of finding an outline hadn’t yet been filled in. I was doing horrible things, all to simply get a hold of another Bible of unfinished pictures. This began to have negative effects on my life. However, I soon learned to compromise and find a fair balance between my passion for coloring and other facets of my life. For instance, when my family complained that they never saw me, and that whenever they actually did see me I’d just color on their faces, I figured out how to fix the problem. That shovel and lime sure did help. And when I was arrested for offering children presents if they would let me reach in their back packs, I simply pleaded innocent and wooed the judge with a beautifully colored picture of a kitty. Now, I know what you’re thinking, Captain College: “But were you good at coloring?” To that I say, “How dare you, and may God strike you down for thinking such a thing! I was—and still am—undoubtedly the best colorer in the Greater Sandusky Area!” “But do you ever color outside the lines?” you may ask. My response would be exactly the following. “Hell to the no. I do not color outside the lines! I trace those lines like Dick Cheney traces phone calls. I am able to do this with my amazing skills as well as by using the most premium of markers. And I would not be caught dead with a god-forsaken pastel in my hand. In fact, if you ever see me holding one of those sticks of devil-wax, shoot me then because I will have lost all my integrity.” Well, I hope you enjoyed my tale. I know I did, especially the sex scenes. Color away! – Ben Nichols Wayne Knight. Does that name mean anything to you? Oh, really? Nothing at all, you say? Well, it means the world to me. Wayne Knight starred in the 1990’s hit sitcom “Seinfeld” as Jerry’s infamous arch nemesis, Newman, and when I say that no one has influenced my life more, I damn right mean it. At the early age of five, my parents abandoned me in an inner-city parking lot. I had embarrassed them by throwing a temper tantrum upon being repeatedly asked to sit in the car seat. The jerk-offs wouldn’t let me sit in the middle; I thought it seemed like a simple request. I cursed them out and smashed the windshield with the ice scraper. Then I stabbed my mother with it. That’s when they left. Luckily, I didn’t much care for them anyway. Actually, their abandoning me probably ranks in the top five things to ever happen to me—it’s right up there with losing my virginity at my fifth grade graduation and getting to third base at my fourth grade graduation. However, little did I know that this simple occurrence would lead to THE BEST thing to ever happen to me… Enter Wayne Knight. Nine days later, as I sat outside a low-quality Gentleman’s Club, hung over and nearly starved to death, I felt someone bend down over my body and quietly scoop me up, two plump yet powerful arms sliding underneath my arched back and lifting me with ease into the air. I slowly opened my eyes, and as I did so, I thought to myself: There’s only one person this could possibly be… NEWMAN! My guess was spot on. Maybe it was something in the air that day. Maybe it was just a weird, lucky, random-as-hell guess. Maybe I smelt his disgusting, sweaty armpits. But for some reason, I had a feeling that Newman from Seinfeld was rescuing me. And he was. I lived with Mr. Knight for the next nine years. He even let me call him Newman. But in reality, I’m the one who actually became a new man. For years, Newman bathed me, clothed me, fed me and bathed me some more. He brought me to the set of “Seinfeld” and the premier of “Jurassic Park.” It was as if he was both my daddy and my mommy, bundled into one big, cuddly plumpard. And then there’s his work. Ohhhhhhhhh, Dear Lord Jesus, his work! You see that? I nearly fainted there just thinking about how brilliant all of his work is. Talk about a career. Season 6, Episode 7 is even more inspiring than watching “Miracle” and “Rocky” back-to-back (and that’s what inspired me to take up ice-boxing, so you know it’s inspiring!). Between his acting, caretaking and overall demeanor, not one person comes close to being such an important figure in my life. I have perfect sight, but I wear the same glasses he wears. I have a spot-on fasion sense, but I wear the same ugly windbreakers as Newman. He has not had a single bad influence on me…except for maybe his goofy racist friend. – Billy Fowkes