My short pants are made of velvet

Frolixo, age 7.

Hallo weekend crew! I want to get a little highbrow this Saturday, so I hope it doesn’t scare most of you off. I know that I may seem like an ill-mannered, mildly retarded, psychopathic asshole, but the truth is that I’m all those things and more. I have a side to me that I hide from the public so that I seem “cool”, or “with it”, or even “happening”. My dark secret is that I absolutely love classic literature. I'm really am a fanboy of the worst kind, with most of my affinity to the Great Russian writers of the late 1800’s. You don’t believe me? When I purchased my little guinea pig, I named him “Smerdyakov” because he’s so devious and full of seething hatred. Some guys collect porn mags, but not me. It’s the newest edition of The Brothers Karamazov that I take home in a brown paper bag, scuttling back to my small apartment to feverishly unwrap with sticky, grubby fingers.

I believe this was directly caused by my upbringing. My father was a strict disciplinarian taskmaster as well as a part-time English teacher. If I did not finish all the food on my plate, I was forced to name all the characters from “Sense and Sensibility”. If I didn’t go to sleep when I was supposed to, he would read me the most depressing works of Kafka until I wept myself to nightmare-filled slumber. Once I forgot to check the corn for yeast worms, and had to recite the complete works of Dostoevsky while halfway submerged in boiling hot oatmeal. It was a hard childhood, yet instead of despising the literature I was so harshly punished with, I instead embraced it, feeling that I had grown up with the characters. Although my love of the written word caused me to get thrown in the garbage can a lot in school, it was the price I was willing to pay for such great classics.

Unfortunately, the technology of the Internet has caused a considerable dent in my generation's ability sit still and read text because they are too busy trying to click random pop-up ads for free bags of gold. The same goes for television, which can probably be blamed for the gradual bloating of America while also replacing important brain lobes with pine scented cedar chips. I was not allowed to watch TV as a child, but know enough from sneaking a peek while my father was out whipping the hogs for heresy to know most of the popular sitcoms of the 70's and 80's. So how can this new generation of culturally deficient teens get introduced to classic literature with all these distractions around? I'm glad you asked, because I came up with a fantastic idea to combine popular old TV sitcoms with the elements of well-known writers of great literature. I admit that I thought of the idea while totally stoned off my ass while eating cupcakes in my underwear and silently weeping, but it could still work. If it doesn’t work then I swear I’ll kill myself!

Sanford and Son

Grime and Punishment as told by Fydor Dostoevsky

Frederick Svolidirov Sanford lived on the edge of town in rubbish shop that he ran with the help of his dearest son Lemont Kolionikov Maroskoiv Sanford. It was no secret that Frederick was quite good with money, and managed to save a tidy sum of 900 rubles over the years, thus securing his position of influence among the highest circles of society. Lemont held a civil servant job with the Counselorary, yet remained with his father to aid him in his failing health. Frederick Sanford had been busy arranging a marriage between Lemont and the daughter of a very well regarded retired general, but Lemont was already deeply in love with a lady of ill refute, and planned to run away with her to Poland to spend away their last kopeck on gamble and drink. Meanwhile, Gradey has spent the last six months in squalor, pondering his theory that "if God doesn't exist, everything is permitted", and that he was akin to men of greatness such as Napoleon. He tests this theory by murdering Aunt Esther with an axe, yet quickly succumbs to his overbearing guilt and confesses. Before Lemont can run off to Poland, Frederick Sanford is murdered by his nihilist servant, Bubba Bexley. The crime is pinned on Lemont, and he is charged with murdering his father. Gradey is sent to the Gulag to start the road to his redemption, and Bubba Bexley tries to hang himself in his room, but the rope snaps under his giant girth, cueing the laugh track.

Charles in Charge

The Deadly Charge as told by Edgar Allen Poe

My torture unfathomable, I am deceived unto this nightmare by a one Charles, whom was put in charge of the Pembrokes this season past. Handpicked by the Inquisition for his stern resolution to extract information in any way, the Pembrokes were subject to the most cruel actions of his perverse imagination. I had come to my most unfortunate imprisonment at the same time as the poor family, and witnessed their horrible demise. One could see Charles tour his catacombs of suffering, walking silently in a black robe, a pale expressionless face peering out of the dark hood. Poor little Jason was the first to perish under Charles' charge, boiled in milk for not completing his homework by his instructed time. Lila was the next unfortunate soul to meet a exquisitely painful death, this time at the hands of the Iron Maiden for talking on the phone too much with various boys. Wisecracking little Douglas was not so lucky. He was strapped to a stone slab above a razor sharp pendulous blade that cut him in two for having such a sassy mouth. The parents, Jill and Stan, where whipped repeatedly singing the verses "Charles in Charge of our days and our nights, Charles in Charge of our wrongs and our rights, I want Charles in Charge of me", until they died of their wounds. Once his duty was complete, Charles invited his friend, Buddy, down into the dungeon. This was just a trap to chain him to a wall and enclose him in a dark cell with mortar and brick for a most unnatural early burial. To this day, you can hear Buddy's thumping heart through the floorboards and walls; a reminder of the horror this house conceals.

Mr. Belvedere

A Matter of Prudence as told by Jane Austen

It would be an understatement to proclaim that the Owen's household was in an awful amount of excitement. The oldest daughter, Heather, was having a suitor of extremely important stature over for a late brunch. It was Mr. Belvedere's job to ensure the event went smoothly, providing he could keep a handle on the wily Wesley. Heather was a wild and winsome creature of a most agreeable nature, unfortunately her family lacked the manners required for such guests. Only one hour before Sir William was slated to arrive, Wesley had set flame to the living room, and her father George devoured the ham that was to be served. Heather was horribly disconcerted, fretting to no end. Thankfully the resourceful Mr. Belvedere saved the day by smothering the flames, and acquiring a new ham from the local bakery.

The gentleman's coach arrived on time, and Heather introduced the refined gentleman to her family. There was almost a scandal right away as her older brother Kevin asked Sir William if he was some kind of "fag" because he had a cape. Mr. Belvedere defused the potentially disastrous situation by asking Sir William how his business was doing, and fetched him a hot drink. While the charming and handsome Sir William went on about the terribly huge amount of money he was making in the slave market, everyone was startled by the screams of Sir William's coach horses outside. Mr. Belvedere excused himself and investigated the queer shrieks of terror. It turned out that the prankster Wesley had murdered the horses and drank their blood, fleeing into the night. The upset Mr. Belvedere returned to the company, to find George totally drunk, donned only in his underwear, and slapping his wife Marsha about the face for not giving him another boy. The guest was clearly shocked, so much so that his monocle practically flew off his head. Mr. Belvedere rushed in to stop the scandalous scene, but George saw him coming and roundhouse kicked him in his giant belly, sending him flying across the room and crashing right through the south wall. Poor Heather sobbed uncontrollably, knowing now that she would never marry anyone of worth. Sir William grabbed his top hat and cane, and rushed out of the household proclaiming, "Well, I never!" He ran outside only to scream in shock when he saw his coach horses crumpled in front of him. Wesley then descended on his prey, slaying with ruthless efficiency.

Alf

Kitten Pie as told by Franz Kafka

Alf's pain was unbearable. Every single day he spent with the Tanners he was reminded of the futility of existence. The Tanners, and millions of families like them across the world, busied themselves like little ants building anthills, only to be swept away by time and ultimately forgotten. Since arriving to this simple planet and taking up residence at this humble home, he has witnessed the most ignorance, hatred, fear, stupidity, and outright cruelty he has ever seen. The sheer idiocy of this planet's religious bigotry was mind blowing, if not ultimately hilarious. Recently Alf had been feeling suicidal. Being tapped on a joke of a planet and surrounded by barely evolved primates was pure hell. He tried to have some discussions with Willie Tanner, but he just scowled at Alf, thinking he must be drunk again. Lynn, and Kate would listen to him, but he could tell they did not have the intellect to understand what he was trying to convey. Thankfully, little Brian Tanner had proved to be his most reliable confidant and friend. He hated to lay so much on the child, but he needed to get these feeling of crushing despair off his chest and it helped to talk. One day he walked into Brian's room to talk about how useless breathing really is, and found him dead, hanging from the ceiling fan. Alf sighed, and cut the little boy down to bury him in the backyard, but got lazy and just burned him in the garage instead. Willie was really angry with him, but Alf didn't care. He just didn't care about anything anymore. Alf cracked open a baby kitten's skull to drink the sweet fluid inside, and settled down to watch Star Search.

Well ok, maybe it wasn't such a great idea, but I think that I may have made a few impressions to those young kids out there who are on the Internet browsers that have no exposure to the old classics. I'm sure I'll catch some flak from purists who are disgusted with my dumbing down of literature by combining them with hit sitcoms, but sometimes you need to crack a few eggs to make a cake, if you know what I mean. Listen kids, stay in school, read books everyday, and don't do drugs, unless you trust your dealer. I'll be in England and Scotland for the next two weeks, the birthplace of books and dragons, so behave while I'm gone or I'll give spankings all around. Toodles!

State Og

It's Saturday once again, and you know what that means. You get to see the impossibly long nickname Dennis "Corin Tucker's Stalker" Farrell after a week of breathless anticipation! If this has been a week of actual breathless anticipation and you don't happen to have gills, then you might want to make an appointment with a doctor or mortician. Those of you who don't have an appointment to make should consider spending some time with State Og's update:

Buzzards have an amazing instinct that allows them to sense when an animal is about to die. Surely, we've all seen buzzards circling in the distance and either felt sorry for, or masturbated to the thought of a dying animal. But buzzards are a necessity. Without them we'd have carcasses everywhere.

If you aren't compelled to head on over to State Og after that quote, then you must be crazy. Actually, a recent poll indicates that 100% of our readers are clinically insane, so if you don't like State Og and are insane, you don't exist. I think. I'm sort of confused now, so just go read our update and let me try to sort this out.

– Reid "Frolixo" Paskiewicz