Ok, I’ve always had a lot of respect for the British because of all that Churchill-ian ‘stiff upper lip’ stuff during the Big-ass War Pt. 2, Monty Python, keeping those damn Irish in line, etc. etc. This view has radically changed in the week, however, because I’ve recently come to the realization that your benighted isle is actually home to a civilization of baby-eating, knuckle-dragging, slope-headed troglodytes who are hell bent on bringing about the extermination of all that is right and holy on this blue planet by a variety of unsavory and ill-conceived practices. What inspired this profound insight? One word: Marmite.
Allow me to fill you in on how my life has been unalterably changed by this vile substance. One of my co-workers is British and, I must admit, I had a great deal of respect for her (she looked like my freakin’ grandma for chrissakes, how could I NOT respect her?). So, when she brought in a dark brown jar of something called ‘Marmite’ and innocently asked if I’d like a taste I answered in the affirmative without hesitation. I mean, this is my British pseudo-grandma right? Surely SHE wouldn’t do anything to harm my immortal soul!
Suffice to say that I was horribly, horribly wrong. I don’t usually bother to smell my food (which in this case was a near fatal mistake) so I innocently accepted a cracker that was slathered in what looked to be a dark brownish black jelly-like substance. “No problem,” I thought to myself, “apple butter looks kind of like that and I know my English grandmum wouldn’t feed me anything nasty. It probably tastes really good!” I can only marvel at how innocent and naive the pre-Marmite Wabbit was. Oh, how I now long for those days…
As the cracker was enroute to my mouth, I got a faint whiff of something nasty, something rotting, something corrupt, which seemed to be emanating from it. I can’t really explain how foul, how EVIL this smell was, but I must try: it was the smell of rotting yeast, but not normal rotting yeast. This was yeast that had killed numerous baby yeasts, been executed by the yeasty powers-that-be (whatever they are), been resurrected by some ill-conceived yeast government experiment only to run amok once more until it was finally gunned down, burned, stabbed, nailed to a large tree and set on fire by a vengeful mob of its peers. After moldering in a pile of radioactive yeast feces for a few millennia, this decomposing yeast extract was found by a shambling simian-wannabe called an ‘Englishman’ who scraped it out of whatever dark recesses of Mother Earth he found it in, stuck it in a jar and began selling it to his less intelligent peers.
But I digress. This…substance…was enroute to my mouth and by golly once the Wabbit food subroutine gets started there’s nothing baring a close proximity nuclear blast that derails it. Down the hatch it went, followed almost immediately by a powerful gag reflex. I can’t explain what it tasted like–it’s too impossible. The closest I can come is ‘salty, yeasty evil’. And now this foul essence is in me: it’s coating my interior organs like some scummy, slimy oil and I swear to sweet Christ almighty it’s reproducing itself in my brain. I can’t get that foul taste out of my mouth no matter how much good, clean, wholesome Merican food I consume. I think I’m being assimilated into some horrid collective consciousness, and I kind of resent that (especially because it’s British).
So, although I fear I may soon become smitten with Queen Elizabeth (or Big E as I’ve taken to calling her majesty), I wanted to let everyone know that it’s not me talking, it’s the Marmite.
And for the life of me I can’t figure out why anyone would think the scum at the bottom of a barrel would be worth eating. Those crazy English… 
