Hi everyone, you might know me as television's "Mike the Slayer", or maybe as "that drunken hobo who lives by the train tracks". You might be feeling confused right now. Or annoyed. Or aroused. All of these things are possible.

All is possible.

There was a time in my childhood when the thought of communicating with such diverse personages from wildly divergent time-lines and reality-spheres would have seemed the stuff of sheer fancy.

But burly men dug up the desert and buried the tubes. They swam beneath the ocean and negotiated tenuous contracts with dubious governments who remained unconviced as to the benefits of "telecommunications".

Telecommunicado.

Like a tape cassette recorder playing on a loop in a mountaintop cabin, my voice speaks out across the ages. My words ring out like a call to arms, like a hip-hop rhyme half-written, misspelled, in black marker pen on a crumpled up McDonald's (global sponsors of the Olympics) cup.

But what does it all mean? Who are we? Who is the otter floating gently downstream laying on its back looking up at the clouds and the stars and wondering: "What does it all mean?"

It means exactly as much as everything else.

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