By a Brit in America

Listen here, Yanks. My entire identity is defined by the fact that I’m from GREAT Britain, and there is nothing you or your star-spangled buddies can do to force me to adopt your red, white, and blue Americanisms.

You know what else is red, white, and blue? The flag of the motherland. Quite frankly, I find it to be absolute wank that I have to acclimatise to a different country despite being from the GREATEst Britain. We’re GREAT Britain because we’re GREAT at tax evasion, GREAT at having disturbingly high levels of teenage pregnancies and, mate, we have the GREATEST dental discolouration on the face of the earth.

President’s Day was hard for me this year. It’s culturally insensitive for you to ask me who my favourite President was. You know who my favourite President was? King George III. You know where your cherished American apple pie really comes from? That’s right, you balls-deep-in-a-bald-eagle hippie. It comes from England. Sweet, national-healthcare apples wrapped in crisp, questionable-colonialism pastry. 

Why are you fat oafs so friendly? Being friendly and expressing authentic emotion in public in my country are grounds for treason. You guys may be genuinely helpful and have a pure love of country, but quite frankly, you can shove a corndog up your entire arsehole. Why can’t you be miserable, self-hating, closeted xenophobes like the charming Brits? Stop holding my culture hostage.

Three years have gone by since I moved here, and I still don't know the value of a nickel, dime and a quarter. It's honestly discriminatory that you'd think that I do. I’d much prefer to use my currency of pipples and squids rather than your ungrateful, tea-dumping traitor metal. The fact that you expect me to migrate to your country and actually adopt your mannerisms, culture, currency, and style of blue trousers is a bloody disgrace.