Uber Eats: Long disclaimer
AUSTRAILIA: You can get almost anything on Uber Eats now. Well, almost, almost anything. To demonstrate this wide selection, long copy outdoor ads attempted to disclaim everything we don’t deliver.
Agency: Special Group
And this is what the long disclaimer actually read like:
Get almost almost* anything.
*No ants. No anteaters. No Andalusian stallions named Paul. No bassoons. No baboons. No burning hot piles of molten lava. No cats. No catamarans. No really big rocks. No librarians. No jazz trios. No jazz duos. No solo saxophonists. In fact, no smooth jazz instrumentalists of any kind. No lightning. No black holes. And absolutely no entire-country-of-Belgium. No CD-rom encyclopaedias. No 90s heartthrobs wearing loose white shirts that are soaking wet for some reason. No ibises. Or is it ibii? No, it’s definitely ibises, just checked on that encyclopaedia CD-rom that we don’t deliver. No penguins. No wet chalk. No rainbows. No clouds. No amphibians. No long lost high school crushes named Steven. No big bags full of dust. No holograms. No hovercrafts. No cool breezes that instantly take you back to that perfect afternoon with Steven behind the science building. No camels. No dromedaries. No mid-size sedans with alloy wheels and surprisingly good fuel economy. No wheelie bins full of jelly. No, seriously, we mean it, we can’t deliver Steven from your Year 10 chemistry class. He’s a happily married man now and a surprisingly successful dentist. How would we explain it to his children? “Sorry, kids. Dad has to go now”. “Hop in the bag, Steve”. How would he even fit? He’s 5’11 and 87 kilograms. Our bags are made of paper. It would never work. So, please, let it go. No light aircraft. No heavy aircraft. No alphabet soup where all the B’s have been removed because they looked like 8’s and now you can’t spell the word ‘Bulbous’ which is a shame because it’s a fun word to say. Bulbous. No new eyebrows. No new eyeballs. No potatoes that look exactly like past prime ministers. No axolotls. No personalised number plates for B4DB015 and/or B4D94L5. No DNA sequences for extinct animals. No sagittariuses—we know how they get when they’re delivered to someone’s home via an online delivery app. No extra crunchy gravel. No 100-piece symphony orchestras that play K-pop covers while wearing shiny swim trunks even though we will freely admit that would be totally awesome and maybe the best soundtrack imaginable for your 20 year high school reunion where you could impress Steven with your high energy dance routine that you spent the last three months perfecting in front of the full length mirror in your upstairs bathroom. No Shannon Nolls. No flavour savers. No big, bushy beards. No Shetland ponies. No unicorns. No rescue cats who only drink from puddles in the shower because they were raised on the street and don’t understand the concept of bowls. No medieval knights. No chain mail. No chain emails that if you don’t forward to 10 people in the next 10 minutes you’ll be cursed with bad luck for the next 10 years. No anterior cruciate ligaments. No hand-written love notes from Steven. H e stopped writing those to you years ago when he started going out with Jessica and you spread a rumour that he cried when he got gravy on his favourite cargo pants. No listeners for your podcast. No sleep. No tonsils. No perfect come-backs to the passive-aggressive coworker who “complimented” your outfit for being “brave”. Screw you, Rebecca. No monotremes. No Jeffs. No bridges. No game show hosts. No people who would ever read this far. No reasonably priced, north-facing 2 bedroom apartments with parking spaces. No tourists who know how to hook-turn. No potato scallops,not in this town. No body-doubles. No answer to that tricky question that tripped you up in your last performance review. No portable tattoo guns. No portable tattoo-removal guns. No portals to parallel dimensions where everyone likes the same terrible TV shows as you. No persian rugs for prices that will never be repeated. No books about ‘Synergy’. No stomach exerciser thing-a-ma-jigs that guarantee to turn your gut into a 6-pack or your money back. No inflatable dart boards. No miracle cure for ouchie knees. No je ne sais quoi. No Hollywood cameos. No Bollywood cameos. No daytime TV show cameos where you find out you have a long-lost twin who looks just like you but with a goatee and he’s moving into your home—surprise! No veterinary science degrees. No lycra dungarees. No lumberjacks called Jack. No clairvoyants called Claire. No pterodactyls called Pterry. No more dad jokes, sorry. No mum jokes either. And no second cousin twice-removed jokes. No board games that prevent, rather than provoke, family disputes. No normal siblings. No excuse for telling your sister that your Mum told you that you’re her favourite, even though everyone already sort of knew it. No magic wands. No magic beans, unless you count baked beans and their restorative powers after a big night out. No dugongs. No colossal squids. No merpeople. No highly trained seagulls who steal chips from other people and bring them to you in return for unwavering companionship. No tastefully renovated kitchens. No distastefully renovated kitchens. No real estate agents. No accountants. No plumbers. No carpenters. No tree doctors. No knee doctors a.k.a. orthopaedic surgeons. No orthodontists. No new molars after you bite really hard into a stuffed olive only to find it wasn’t a stuffed olive, it was an olive olive, and it had a rock hard pit where you expected to find soft, soft feta and now you know better but you’ll never fully trust an olive ever again. No trust repair kits. No standing desks. No sitting desks. No high powered lasers. No forgiveness for the Woodhaven Ravens who beat your team, the Wild, Wild Wombats, in the dying seconds of 1998 Under 12 Division B Grand Final with a goal that was, according to multiple sources, completely illegal. No king size waterbeds that you can rotate with a remote control. No giant aquariums full of rare tropical fish. No blue whales. No white whales. No sort of blue-ish, white-ish whales. No krill. No plankton. No submarines. No bunk beds for you and your best friend to stay up all night talking about cutie patooties. No apologies for using the phrase “cutie patooties”. No eye massages for people who have read thousands of words of fine print. No tangerines as big as your head. No cryogenic freezing chambers designed to preserve a banh mi so perfect you want future generations to find it and learn from it. No mimes. No invisible glass boxes. No way you’re still reading this? What about your train? Please don’t miss your train. No refunds for missed trains. No private jets. No public jets. No public speaking coaches who can teach you five simple tricks to stop your palms sweating when you attend a mandatory team building exercise and the moderator asks you to share a ‘fun fact’ about yourself with the group. No ‘fun facts’. No legally-binding document that can get you out of any and all future team-building exercises. No volcanos (too dangerous). No waterfalls (too wet). No valleys (impractical). No swampland (too many crocodiles). No crocodiles. No alligators. No goannas. No komodo dragons. No bearded dragons. No beardless dragons. No dragons with cute little moustaches. No mechanical bulls. No cowboy boots with Cuban heels that clip clop when you walk. No moon boots. No space suits. No huge, glowing spheres of burning hot gas and plasma measuring roughly 695,000 kilometres in diameter that heat the Earth. No explanation for that weird bruise on your shin. No dental floss powerful enough to make up for a year of not flossing, with one mega floss session on the morning before your annual dentist appointment. No dentist who doesn’t ask questions when their hand is in your mouth. No easy way to break up with your hairdresser. No hedge mazes. No enchanted trees. No enchanted flutes. No regular flutes. No lutes. No acoustic air guitars—all air guitars are electric and come with an invisible cable that should be plugged into giant air amps, that’s just common sense. No common sense. No uncommon sense. No abstract concepts unless you count the joy associated with the things we do get, like mixed meat kebabs with garlic and chilli sauce. No shadows except the ones cast by the things we do get. No spinach that arrives with a legally binding guarantee that it won’t get stuck in your teeth. No true friends who actually tell you when you’ve got some spinach in your teeth. No cockatoos. No cockatiels. No budgerigars. No parrots who speak fluent Indonesian. No rollerblading geese. No way to take back that embarrassing thing you did on that video call that time. No sentient cabbages. No ferrets. No tap dancers. No pyrotechnic displays. No hot air balloons. No blimps. No UFOs. No aliens who are actually pretty cool once you get to know them. No anvils. No babbling brooks. No stunningly realistic water-colour paintings of your childhood dog riding a scooter off a massive launch ramp to the delight of thousands of screaming fans—also dogs—at some kind of extreme dog sport competition. No never-ending fondue fountain that lets you cover everything you eat in molten cheese for evermore. No flying cars even though it’s 2023 and science fiction promised they’d be everywhere by now. No jet packs either. No artificially intelligent jars of salsa that know when their lids are too tight. No particle accelerators. No satellites. No stalactites. No delicate morning fog. No self-washing dishes. No golden cavoodles. No sheepadoodles. And absolutely no edible sunscreen. Even if it smells delicious. Trust us.