Dear Slate, you complete me, love, me

I never knew what happiness was, Slate Magazine. On your front page today reside articles on Bill Frist, a toaster, Barry Bonds, baby seals, journalism, and breast-feeding. What a cornucopia of pleasures for coach-class morons like me who have to look up the spelling of words like "cornucopia."

Perhaps the best dispatch from today's edition, however, is the one on so-called Katrina Cottages, little 400-square-foot houses designed to be erected on devastated lots and eventually turned into permanent homes. According to the writer - some guy named "Witold" - they cost $10,000 less than the temporary trailers provided by FEMA. Unfortunately, they seem to be modeled after the dollhouse my dad built for my sister back in 1986, without using any tools. But hey, beggars can't choose, right? Hope you like your new stove. It's Zippo powered! But you have to supply your own Zippo. As someone who has spent a lot of time in trailers and trailer parks, I must say - I'd have gone with the trailer.


Do you think my roof makes me look fat?

Where was I before I started being mean. Ah, yes. Slate, I love you so. So fucking much! Where else would I have learned of such a story? Nowhere. That's where.

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(Photo Credit: Slate. Of course.)