Not nearly enough people are talking about one of the country's sharpest comedy shows ever, despite the fact that it's currently sitting on America's Comedy Central alongside works by the likes of Awkwafina and Key and Peele.
It's called Sis and it's the comedy sketch show Māori and Pasifika audiences have been waiting for our whole lives; its whole premise is "brown girl comedy" - made for brown people, about brown people, by brown people. It's available to stream for free now at comedycentral.com.au.
The show's created by Hanelle Harris ( Baby Mama's Club ) and stars Gaby Solomona, Suivai Autagavaia and Hillary Samuelu as cousins Miki, Malia and Gee Gee, as well as a comedian fast cementing himself as a household name, Tom Sainsbury who plays various problematic white men.
The first sketch sets the tone for what Sis is, with a horror-themed scene set in a convenience store in which Sainsbury plays a security guard. The cousins burst onto the scene in sweatpants, braids, bucket hats and hoop earrings, calling each other "oi" and instead of a "yes", giving a, "bro, hard".
What happens next is a take on racial profiling but with Harris' distinct spin, turning Sainsbury into a Terminator-esque security worker following the cousins around the shop with terrifying persistence and an even more terrifying insistence that he's "just doing his job".
It's one of those "we've all been there moments" brown Kiwis will relate to, but done in a way which is as fresh as it is hilarious.
Throughout the hour-long show - which is split into four parts - we shift between the cousins' adventures and the Sis writers' room which is no doubt a funny yet depressingly accurate take on Harris' experiences as a Māori content creator in a predominantly white industry.
Here, Sainsbury plays our problematic white guy once again; the kind who is convinced they're doing the right thing while continually doing the wrong thing and, when called out, brings in a spiritual mediator because he feels "othered" and "marginalised". (Again, we all know the type.)
The writing workshops comment on how the industry wants us because "woke" is in vogue, but can still only accept us in the stereotypical narratives they're used to.
Without saying it, it's a little insight for the audience into why we needed Sis and why the fact that we got, and that we got it as the creator intended it, is a big deal.
Through the cousins' skits, we take on the ugly and outdated idea of "plastic Samoans" via three Samoan anti-cousins as a version of "the plastics" from Mean Girls (genius).
We get a Freaky Friday-esque body swap - thanks to some tampering with the traditions of kava - which gives sexist men a taste of what it's like to be a woman, and which involves an argument which is so perfect with its very unique insults (shout out to the Otara Market shoes line - I felt personally attacked).
And perhaps my personal favourite was the parents holding an intervention for their son who has an addiction to dating white women because it ends with a twist and one hell of a 'damn, they went all the way there' type burn on league players
Oh, and speaking of favourites, did I mention pretty much everything about Gee Gee in all her sex-positive, feeling-herself, Lizzo-loving glory? Good.
Throughout Sis , everything from the soundtrack (featuring other brown women like JessB and Aardijah) to the wardrobe (down to the Salt-N-Pepa t-shirt and the lavalava) has that familiarity we don't get anywhere else and it's everything I never even knew I needed.
Sis is genuinely funny and keyed into the culture of its audience, and the writing is whip-smart and fearless with dialogue that feels authentic and easy. All of which reiterates the difference between a show made by us, for us and one made by producers like the one Tom Sainsbury portrays in Sis.
The team behind Sis are looking to make more episodes if the demand - and therefore, the funding - is present and I'll be stunned if it's not.
It's funny, unique, authentic, unapologetic and gives so many Polynesian people the representation we've long dreamed of, and the reassurance that our stories will be told in our voice.