I'm feeling very un-(bacterially) cultured...

What the hell is up with yogurt in this country?
I was recently in England, where I was exposed to all manner of mouth-watering and fantastic flavours of yogurt: fig and greek honey, plum, apple pie (delicious, people, delicious!), damson, and rhubarb. Even in low fat flavours!
Yogurt, in short, to get genuinely excited about and pledge life-long devotion to.
And now, have just returned from Loblaws, where the most exciting flavour on offer appeared to be banana. In disgust, I've just eaten a tepid and unsatisfying cherry Silouette.
What's behind this national short-coming? Are we to blaim the North American obssession with dieting (which the "would you like some toast with your pancakes?" British definitely do NOT share) and, hence, elimiting taste?
Do we feel we have no national fruits worthy of specialty yogurt status? What about maple yogurt? What about gooseberry? What about tortiere yogurt? (Ok, maybe not tortiere yogurt.)
Or is there some place where one can get such exotic flavours, and it's only me who is in the dark?
People of Canada, enlighten me.

In the Beginning

Imagine yourself as a first year York University student.
You've travelled five thousand miles across this great country of ours in order to attend this august institution...only to discover that it's
a) not right downtown in the heart of it all, as you'd been led to believe, but instead marooned in the middle of a power-line waste-land
b) a towering, sprawling tribute to the joys of concrete
c) you'll be spending your year living in a prison cell block isolation cell the size of a broom closet with astro-turf carpeting

So you can well imagine your mindset as you approach the Ross Buidling for your first class of your new year (at 8:30 am on goddamned Monday morning.)

The class - Theatre for Non-Majors, which you have mistakenly signed up for in the belief that it is geared towards people who love theatre, who thrill to their very core for theatre, who will gather to worship theatre and discuss it with enthusiasm and excitement and reverence.
Instead - it's the driest, most unimaginative, cut and paste history of theatre as an art form, taught by a wobbling jello like-woman named Lorna or Helmut or similar. Blobby-teacher is obviously unhappy with her life, and has decided that all she encounters will suffer because of it. This means you.

As she begins to drone on in what you will soon realize, with sinking heart, is her accustomed mode, you also realize that the orange plastic molded chair you have taken is the least ergonomically-designed seat in the history of seats. Which means you will spend all future Monday mornings bored, sleepy, and uncomfortable. Interminable visions of mediocrity and frustration yawn out before you. You begin to sweat. Panic dries your mouth instantly. Your brain screams, are you kidding me?? I came all this way for this??? How in God's name will I be able to endure this for an entire scholastic year???

....and then, someone slinks into the orange bucket chair next to you. And starts unwrapping a bagel, uncaring that the crinkle of paper disturbs Blobby's mono-drone. And you sense immediately, with those eerie tingling spidey-senses, that you have just found yourself an ally...

And thus beginneth the unholy alliance of the creators of "Stuart is Dead"! Yee-haw! Welcome to the jungle, you lucky party people!