The economist, philanthropist, businessman and former political figure is ready to unveil his art passion project to visitors.

Table of Contents Toggle * Getting smaller * A man found Andrew dead * New Journos * Bill from Hallandale * Became famous A man called Andrew was running. Andrew ran and he ran and he kept on running. Not really running from, or to anything, just running for its own sake. He was like that Forest Gump character, on a mission to discover his own inner self. His worn out feet and his ever decreasing frame. Andrew was running. He lost about half a kilo each day. He ended up being given clothes and various supplies by strangers as he went running through their little country towns. Smaller towns and smaller clothes. The last of Australia’s hope in these tiny towns, some of them tidy, but all of them full of dismay as they died a slow death. Nearly every young person once reaching a certain age, just up and left. Businesses closed and people died. Pubs had no happy hour and the local butcher had long since gone along with the post office and the bank. In fact the owners of the bank and post office fell in love and just disappeared. Andrew didn’t even notice any of this, he just ran. The strangers were very nice but they struggled to keep up. Most had to drive alongside him and chuck bits of clothing and supplies into his little trailer back pack thing. ## Getting smaller This sometimes weighed heavily on the increasingly shrinking Andrew, but he sorted each day’s offerings when he stopped for the night. He’d sleep beside the road, in a tree, in the bushes or when offered – in someone’s house. He left his waste where ever the night was held, but some waste was left on the roadside as he ran, it poured down most often. The small towns started to harness a social support network as a result of the media’s attention to Andrew. He became a metaphor for their problems as he ran out his own. The townsfolk became known as the generous country folk (GCF) and they all ended up banding together on a website designed to keep track of the incredible shrinking man. Andrew was 2 years into his running and didn’t look like stopping anytime soon. ## A man found Andrew dead Dead with no head. His head had rolled out onto the road. A GCF’er had nearly run over it has he drove out to help Andrew. The near miss then allowed the GCF’er to discover the gory scene that was Andrew’s final resting place. It seemed that a man called Andrew had been eating his evening meal while sitting in his makeshift running man bed. His body was scrunched crossed legged into the ground, without its head, holding a small camping plate and somehow being held up by the frazzled skeletal shape that Andrew now sported. Minus his head. The Police had no idea, as per usual. The Hallandale Police were a bit dim, one sergeant and a probationary constable were less than suitable for what would become a national news item. The headless running man was one headline screamed by the media. The media also said the local Police were clueless, which was true on so many levels. ## New Journos Twenty something newly crowned journalists raced out to Hallandale and learnt how to be a journalist while pretending to be one. Smart frocks, high heels and superbly annoying voices squared at the camera and details flowed. Of course no-one had any details but that didn’t stop them.On and on it went, bullshit nonsense selling air and column inches and none of it any wiser or more accurate than the next. Everyone thought they looked good though. * Running Man had been a successful Lawyer * The Running Man had a Police record * Alarm in Hallandale as Killer on the loose ## Bill from Hallandale It turned out many years later that a crazed local called Bill from Hallandale had been hiding in the bushes from the Hallandale bully boys. He’d been rather shocked when Andrew suddenly ran into his hiding spot. Without seeing Bill he proceeded to make a makeshift camp, to engage in sorting clothes, food, water and some rather racy men’s magazines. Food and water was one thing but the cover of one magazine caught Bill’s eye. It was him, full on. Being on and being on’d in this rather frank gay magazine called “Big Boys from the Country”. The bully boys had seen this magazine but claimed to have found it by accident and that’s why they were looking for a bit of Bill. Being a poor sheltered country boy Bill thought they wanted to bash the crap out of him, but the bully boys had more organic reasons to catch up with him and catch down with him for a while. Bill had answered an advertisement when he was last in Sydney and being a little dim did not realise that the “quick $1,000 for two hours work” was for a gay porn photo shoot. Now that he saw Andrew had the magazine – he freaked. He swung out with his hay baling knife and sliced poor Andrew’s head from ear to ear. As the head had nearly left the shoulders, Bill decided to help achieve the last separation. He threw it so far away it actually bounced and ricocheted off a tree branch and sped out onto the road. It went in opposite direction to which Bill had intended. He was just about to go and fetch it when the GCF’er arrived. Bill was very good at hiding and he hid until the crowd gathered about and offered a human swarm for him to join and blend into. ## Became famous No-one knew of this until one of the Hallandale bully boys became a famous gay activist. He’d shared the story about Bill’s hearty photo shoot and it’s arrival in town. He also recanted how they were hunting Bill down for an up, when they ‘d noticed, but taken any notice, as he appeared at the crime scene. Red faced, stained with grass, blood and rage. The Police finally got round to talking with Bill and he admitted everything, except the three gay porn films he’d starred in soon after the slaughter. Ironically his stage name was Head Job Bill. Oddly, Bill had been to Hillsdale.

I’m sorry, but I’m back and looking back and over my shoulder at the same time. The recent going’s on here at the house of tbaoo have given me the shits. So to celebrate here’s a list of the unique features attributed to the body waste evacuation method described as number 2. Some human waste humour while number 2 is defined. I can’t take, or give credit for this prose, suffice to say it’s an oldie that’s been emailed around the world. So here we are, silliness from the old tbaoo site continues. I’ve searched about looking for the source, to no avail. Crap Encyclopaedia – Every once in a while each of us experiences a perfect crap. It’s rare, but a thing of beauty in all respects. You sit down expecting the worst, but what you get is the smooth-sliding, fartless masterpiece that breaks the water with the splash-less grace of an expert diver. But that’s not the end of it. You use some toilet paper only to find that it was totally unnecessary. It makes you feel that all is right with the world and you are in perfect harmony with it. On the other hand (_so to speak_) there is: **The Beer Crap** Talk about nasty craps. Depending on the crapper’s tolerance, the beer crap is the result of too many beers. It could have been two or 22, it doesn’t matter. What you get is a sinister, lengthy, noisy crap accompanied by a malevolent fog that could close a bathroom for days. **The Chilli Crap** Hot when it goes in and rocket fuel when it leaves. The chilli crap stays with you all day, making your tush feel like a heat shield. **The Cable Crap** Long, curly and perfectly formed like two feet of telephone coaxial cable. It loops lazily around the bowl, like a friendly serpent. You wonder admiringly, ‘Did I do that? Where did it come from?’ You leave the toilet pleased with yourself. **The Latrine Crap** In case you didn’t know, a latrine is a hole in the ground with a tent around it – where soldiers, boy scouts and flies go to crap. Tip: don’t ever look down the hole. **The Mona Lisa Crap** This is the masterpiece of craps. It’s as perfectly formed as it can be. Delicate and slender with intricacies that would make Da Vinci weep. And just think, you made it yourself. You may even want to break out the Polaroid camera, but maybe that’s going too far. **The Empty Roll Crap** You’re done… you reach for the toilet paper only to discover that empty cardboard cylinder. A mild panic begins coldly in your throat. You could use the curtains… no, someone would say, ‘Where are the curtains?’ Then what would you say. The rug? Too cumbersome. Then you must come to the same conclusion that every ’empty roll crapper’ must face… pull up your daks, tighten your arse and wriggle yourself to the nearest full roll. A mate ( _of the author_ ), about to run the London Marathon lined up outside the dozens of portaloos on Blackheath to unload a nervous one and discovered when the business was done and he was ready to run a world record race, there was no paper. Panic. The only thing available was a pound note – the last he possessed because they were being replaced by the coin – and he used that, being careful not to use the side with the Queen’s head, of course! **The Splash Back Crap** You send the crap on its way; it drops like a depth charge into the bowl creating a column of cold bowl water that washes your bottom with a startlingly unpleasant shock. Now you’re wet and embarrassed. Tip: blot instead of wipe. **The Aborted Crap** You are in mid-crap when the phone rings. What do you do? ABORT! Pinch it off; go for the phone and save the rest for later. It isn’t pretty, but you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. **The Caesarean Crap** Pain, that’s what this crap and childbirth have in common. It’s simply a case of too much crap trying to go through too small a hole and there’s no obstetrician to help. **The Alfresco Crap** Everyone has had to go outdoors from time to time. This can be a rather pleasant experience really. The open air, the nature, and a good bush all contribute to the peaceful ambience that our primitive forefathers must have enjoyed. What can screw up this harmonious interlude is a troop of Brownies or a patch of poison ivy. **The Tijuana Trot Crap** ( _also known as Delhi Belly, Rabat Runs, Seskatchewan Squits_) The phrase ‘shit happens’ really applies here in a big way. When the ice in your tainted margarita makes contact with your lower intestinal tract, the fun begins. For the next 72 hours you’d be better off if you carried your own portable toilet with you because you will spend most of that time on the pot and the rest of the time in a fetal position. **The Machine Gun Crap** You’re just sitting there in a state of sublime peace when all of a sudden you emit a group of noisy gassy bursts that break the silence like machinegun fire. The guy in the next stall hits the floor like a combat veteran cradling his umbrella like an AK47. **The Sound Effect Crap** You feel a noisy one coming on. Relatives, friends or workmates are within earshot, so you must employ some clever techniques to cover the disgusting sounds you are about to emit. Timing is obviously very important here. At the precise moment of release, try the following sound effects: 1. Flush the toilet. 2. Sing the first two stanzas of your national anthem. 3. Drop a handful of change on the floor. **The Security Crap** You have enough on your mind when you’re in the toilet without worrying about a lockless door and someone bursting in to find you in mid-crap mode. So how can you prevent this embarrassing spectacle from taking place? One way is to strategically place your foot against the door. If you can’t reach to do this… hum loudly. **The Cling-On Crap** For the most part you’ve completed your crap, but there’s one little morsel that refuses to drop off. You’re getting impatient. Someone else wants to use the toilet. So you grip the seat with both hands and wriggle, twist and pump but that last little stubborn piece just hangs there, suspended, clinging like a canned peach between you and the water. Maybe the person pounding impatiently on the door has scissors. **The Houdini Crap** You go, then you stand up to flush and the damn thing has disappeared. Where’d it go? Did it creep down the pipe? Did you dream the whole thing? Is it lurking out of sight? Should you wipe… maybe you should just to make sure you went. Should you flush? You’d better, because if you don’t, you know it will reappear and smile at the next person who comes in. **The Hangover Crap** You feel so bad that you don’t know which end of you to put down first. You have roaring cramps, so you sit down. Then a wave of nausea rolls over you like a cold fog, so you stand up and cramps squeeze your intestines like a vice so you sit down again… up down, up down. Don’t you wish Mum was close by. **The Porta – Pottie Dump** Construction workers and outdoor concertgoers will tell you about going in a portable toilet. My best description would be, ‘It’s like taking a shit in an upright coffin.’ It’s claustrophobic and it smells bad. Best advice: go in a paper cup. **The Proctologist Crap** In the beginning, the Lord created the earth, the sky and the firmament, but I hope he didn’t create this dump because there is nothing biblical about it. You run out of gas. That’s right, you run out of propulsion. The crap is right there at the end of your barrel and refuses to go any further. You grunt, you squeeze, you wriggle but it just stays there like a lump of lead. You’ve only got two choices here. One is to squeeze the damn thing back up your intestine and wait until next time. The other is to pretend you’re a proctologist and go after it yourself. Not a pretty picture is it? **The Whole Roll Crap** No matter how much you wipe, it doesn’t seem to be enough. You blow the whole roll and you have to flush 25 times too. The whole episode is consumer waste. **The Graffiti Crap** You flush the crap and the swirling motion of the receding bowl water forces the crap to the porcelain sides, scraping a creative squiggle on its way down. You flush again but the curly-Q hangs there… love it or leave it, it’s your choice. **The Encore Crap** ‘Ahhh!’ You’re done, so you wipe, put yourself together, wash your hands and are about to vacate the toilet when you feel another crap on its way. You have to return for a curtain call. **The Born Again Crap** This is a dump that’s going badly. You say, ‘Lord, if I live through this, I’ll take up religion.’ You always get through it, but seldom keep the promises you made in desperation, because a born-again crap is like childbirth – you forget the pain quickly. Who would have thought there would be such distinction in producing a number 2.

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Author of A Story or Two to Tell, More Stories to Tell, and Very Odd Short Stories

FCC Commissioner Brendan Carr's weird meme was the final insult.

Retired, with plenty of time on my hands and a healthy dose of grumpiness. The collection leans into sarcasm, cynicism, and a twisted take on the world. I'm inspired by the likes of Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and Douglas Adams. Several curious people, really it’s just one, asked me how or where the ideas came from. Thankfully, there’s no clear answer. When the trousers, mind, or weather conditions suit such things, the computer opens, a page appears, and it starts to flow. Wondrously weird, odd, and strange things abound.

Retired, with plenty of time on his hands and a healthy dose of grumpiness. The collection leans into sarcasm, cynicism, and a twisted take on the world. Inspired by the likes of Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, and Douglas Adams. The Stories to Tell Collection has three books at the moment, and it may well have another soon. I'd love to keep in touch via my newly created mailing list.