and where are my bloody iggs, woman...

Dear Kiwi Filth,

As you have constantly been reminding me all morning…yes it’s been a wonderful last twelve months for New Zealand.
Not only did the mentally fragile ‘All Blacks’ demolish the world-champion ’Wallabies’ in the Bledisloe Cup, leaving our dreams of rugby domination in tatters, but the ‘Silver Lesbian Ferns’ beat Australia’s ‘Golden Trouts’ to win the Melbourne Commonwealth games gold medal. The high point for the Kiwis came in the tri-nations Rugby League final, when the unbeatable ‘Kangaroos’ were held scoreless and flogged by the ‘Sheep-Shagging Wife-beaters’.
Even the ‘Pacific Peso’ came within five cents of parity with the all-conquering ‘Aussie Dollar’.
So, well done to all you Kiwis; enjoy the moment. You have pulled our pants down for now, but let’s not lose sight of the bigger picture, which is this:
In all other respects, your country is complete rubbish!!
That’s right, bro…Cuntsville.
New Zealand is an insignificant, microscopic speck of dirt that would fit comfortably into a remote corner of north-western Australia without even warranting its own postcode. Topographically speaking, it is suitable only for hosting a British Open golf championship, except that the country falls 200 metres short of what the ‘Royal and Ancient Society’ has deemed necessary to build a full-size course. What miniscule landscape does exist is so inhospitable that even the snakes which used to roam the country have moved on to greener pastures, whilst the climate, cold, wet and windy, is bleak enough to depress a polar bear.
Internationally speaking you are even duller than Switzerland, which at least buried its fangs in your butt a few years ago; despite being thoroughly landlocked, those famous, sea-faring makers of cowbells, chocolates and cuckoo clocks, managed to sail over and swipe the America’s Cup from right under your noses by whitewashing the ‘Black Tragic’ defense syndicate.
Your men folk are best-known for their propensity to sleep with livestock, and your womenfolk’s only claim to fame is that in backpacker destinations the world over…they are the barmaid of choice. Both genders have a congenital, vowel-related speech impediment and you tend to finish all your sentences with an interrogative preposition, eh.
You elected a chick as Prime Minister, which, historically speaking puts you on par with those terminally boring Canadians, who gaze longingly across the Great Lakes and dream of being Americans, in the same way you probably stare and drool over The Tasman and dream of being us?
Militarily, you would be incapable of knocking the froth off a cappuccino. We’d come over there and kick your butts up between your shoulder blades, except that from the looks of most of your countrymen, someone has beaten us to it.
Your country’s biggest commercial export is now furniture removalists.
Finally, your national emblem, the thing that identifies itself instantly as being uniquely representative of New Zealand, is the kiwi; a flightless bird. I’m trying to imagine something more pointless than a bird unable to fly but the only thing that springs immediately to mind is a fish that can’t swim.
OK, I feel better now that I’ve said my piece. I sincerely hope I haven’t offended any of my New Zealand friends with this rant, nor the peoples of any other countries mentioned in an unkind light, although I meant every word I said about Canada…