There are 21,000 members of the media in Sydney right now dedicated to reporting, interpreting, and contextualizing the Olympic happenings for the world audience. Lacking experience and training, it is reasonably safe to say I’m among the worst of them. Competing for your attention from this particular journalistic angle, I’m not only out-numbered but significantly out-classed. No one has made this more clear to me than world-famous travel writer and fellow globetrotting Iowa boy, Bill Bryson. His book on Australia came out recently, and he wrote National Geographic’s cover story on Sydney only a few months ago. Now, as a colleague at the Olympics, Bryson serves as my chief source of journalistic emasculation. I’ve read a fair bit of his work in the hopes of receiving inspiration for my columns from a kindred spirit, but instead I have only realized that the Midwesterner-abroad thing has been done and done better. My grandest aspirations for producing wit, humor, informative commentary and insight of the Iowan-in-Australia variety fall well within Bryson’s sphere of accomplishment. Bryson doesn’t stop with Australia, either. This guy even stole my toothpaste observation! In “Notes from a Small Country,” Bryson quips that no matter how much toothpaste you use, you can always squeeze a little bit more from the tube. Curse you Bryson! That was MY nugget of observational humor! Now whenever I use it, I’ll imagine people asking each other behind my back, “Who does he think he is? Bill freaking Bryson?” With this in mind, it shouldn’t surprise you that I was significantly upset today as I rode home from work on the ferry and read an article of Bryson’s in the Sydney Morning Herald on almost exactly the topic I’d originally chosen for this very column. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. Presently, from a journalistic standpoint, Australia is a flattened out, rolled up, and mercilessly squeezed tube of toothpaste. Between Bryson and the other 20,998 journalists competing to bring Australia to the world, I’m struggling to deliver the freshness-packed columns you deserve. But I’m not about to open myself up to more charges of Bryson derivation. I’m going to squeeze just a bit more out and bring you the Australia they still haven’t shown yet. For example, while it may be frequently noted that Australia is home to the world’s deadliest reptiles, spiders and aquatic life, the media rarely mention the average tourist is far more likely fall prey to Australia’s more subtly threatening fauna. While you may know that the world’s ten most poisonous snakes are found in Australia, they don’t tell you Australia is also home to all 10 of the world’s most marketable animals and nine out of 10 of the world’s cutest animals, including the kangaroo, wombat, wallaby, echidna, platypus, and the most adorable naturally occurring non-Pokemon animal on earth, the koala. In plush form, these animals exude a buyablility that is hypnotic. The average tourist doesn’t stand a chance. And despite the inundation of journalists and travel writers relating the glories of Australia to the world, few will pleasure their readership with this gem. It seems that a particular little patch of land in Southeastern Australia is home to the largest earthworm in existence, Megascolides australis. It can reach a length of 12 feet and grow to more than six inches in diameter. This invertebrate colossus is such a hefty worm that you can actually hear it move through the dirt as you stand above it. I doubt anyone has yet written on the peculiar, but undeniable Australian obsession with the male thigh. As an American, I find this quality particularly puzzling. Back home, designers have taken great pains to make sure men’s upper leg regions are removed from the collective consciousness. Down here, that special combination of hamstring, quadriceps, pasty white skin and copious leg hair is celebrated with vigor. Three of the most popular sports in Australia, Aussie rules football, soccer and rugby are designed to do little more than highlight the male thigh at its sweaty best. At the beaches, young and old alike proudly bare thigh. When I hit the sand in my modestly cut swim trunks, I noticed looks of pity from fellow beach-goers. “Probably has woman thighs, the poor bastard,” they seemed to say. Well, just remember that you heard it here first. I’ve scooped the world on Australian Giant worms, dangerously merchandisable animals, and fixations on curious regions of the male anatomy. Well, okay, so I stole the worm story from Bill Bryson Down Under, but the other two are all mine, honest, even if they aren’t exactly the most profound Australian insights you’ll read. I’d say that considering my competition, it’s not too bad. I mean, who do you think I am? Bill freaking Bryson?