Spam's Uber Tour - OrpheliaSubmitted by Spam at 2008-08-19 17:21:04 EDT
Rating: 1.54 on 87 ratings (87 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Hi. I'm Spamuel Spamuelsson. You may remember me from such generic Uber posts as "I slacked off in my office and then was insubordinate to my boss with hilarious consequences" and "I'm so self-involved, let me tell you about my love life, which coincidentally, is bereft of love and in fact, not that much of a life".
How are you today?
Don't answer because I don't really care.
Getting right down to the meat of the matter, let me ask you a question Uber:
What the fuck happened to you guys?
I'm talking to the new Brits here mainly, because as we all know, the Yanks have been a bunch of whiney dull cunts ever since they got all hoity-toity and started throwing our tea into the fucking river rather than carry it about for us.
But the Brits? Back in the days of Wolf, Derkal, Soley et al we used to actually be fun, eloquent and, dare I say, witty? Now it seems, all we have to offer is cheap sex and camping - things which, outside of Glastonbury, don't really go together all that well.
But maybe this is my fault. Maybe, I've been away for so long that you actually ARE funny and decent human beings and I just don't GET you. Perhaps I just need to get to know you all a little better.
So when, a few hours after my most recent (and triumphant) return, I started seeing reviews cropping up left right and centre from such unknowns as 'Banjo', 'Flash Harry' and 'emissionimpossible' that varied from unintelligent to unintelligible, I decided that for the next few weeks, I would go out of my way and actually meet some of you boring cunts in person to see if, in the real world, there was actually anything I could discover about you to forgive your respective inanity.
First up: Orphelia.
Now I'll admit that the circumstances surrounding my recent meeting with Orphelia were none too perfect because as it happens, there was some sort of school-trip going on in the train station where she'd so courteously agreed to meet up with me and, as I alighted onto the platform, my eardrums were immediately assaulted by the collective screaming of a veritable army of children of all different ages, creeds and colours. There were literally HUNDREDS of them rampaging through the station, screaming, shouting, climbing up walls, punching unsuspecting adults in the crotch and generally acting in a way befitting the citizens of Nottingham.
And then, standing in the centre of the organic sprawl, overseeing like the Queen of an alien brood, stood the haggard and dishevelled figure of somebody who looked vague familiar.
Orphelia extends a hand to me as I approach and I see that there’s an infant child attached to her arm, holding on with it’s cubby, barely formed fingers. Likewise, I notice two slightly older children gripping onto each of her legs and for a second I am reminded of those Scarab thingies from The Mummy that crawl all over the eponymous character’s body unnoticed as he goes about his hard day’s universal enslavement.
“Sorry” She says in a guttural tone reminiscent of Bernard Manning, “Had to bring the kids along too.”
I am about to ask exactly who’s kids she has brought because surely this living gallery of nations couldn’t ALL belong to her but I’m too tired after my train ride to get into the details, so instead we stand there in an awkward silence punctuated only by wailing screams of children crying and playing together.
“Sorry,” I say, self-conscious about the lack of conversation, “It’s been a long journey”
“I wish I had something that was long.” She speaks the words with a smattering of cockney cheek and waggles her eyebrows at me suggestively as she talks.
“I’m sorry what? That one slipped right by me?”
“I could do with something slipping right in me.. know what I mean? Ay?”
She nudges me with her elbow and gives the same expression which I don’t really understand.
“Forgive me Orph, but why do you keep turning everything I say into Innuendo?”
There’s a look of deep concentration in her eyes as she grapples with the question before she finally relents and answers.
“In YOUR endo”
I’m about to complain about her lack of propriety when I see her wince slightly like she’s constipated and I hear a squealchy splat from the ground at her feet.
“Fuck. My new shoes” She says irritably as she lifts her dress above ankles revealing a screaming newborn baby of vaguely Inuit origin lying on the tarmac, moist and sticky-looking with the umbilical cord still attached.
“BENNETON. SORT THIS FUCKING THING OUT FOR ME WILL YOU!!!” She screams at a black kid of about 9 who obediently comes over and cuts the newborn free of the cord using the burning cherry of a half-smoked Embassy No.1. He bends over, passes the screaming kid to Orphelia takes a pull from his dripping cigarette to get it going again and then strolls off with a ghetto swagger. Orphelia, now with her latest spawn in her arms, looks at Benetton with eyes brimming with Pride and whispers mistily: “He’s such a fucking sweetheart that one. I Called him Benetton because he was the one that completed the set”
I’m too awestruck by what’s just happed to ask exactly what ‘set’ she’s talking about and part of me really doesn’t want to know anyway.
“Did you actually just give birth on the station platform whilst having a fucking conversation with me?” I ask incredulously.
“Yeah. Happens all the time” She responds, giving her hips a nonchalant little wiggle to release a stream of goopy afterbirth onto the floor. “Wanna come back to my place?”
But I’m already diving back onto the train before it pulls away. Fuck this for a laugh.
And as the train pulls away I look out the window and see Orphelia pinned up against a wall with her legs open getting hammered by a Chinese midget, a crisp ten-pound held in her hand as she waves me goodbye with a bored expression on her face.
Next Week, see what happened when my train reaches it’s destination and I met up with Banjo.
(Photograph of Orphelia and the kids below)
The bitch is back.jpg