Hello again, Friend.

I hope I didn’t alarm you by my single missive and then the ensuing absence. It was wholly unintentional. I didn’t want to give you the impression that this Ricky* of ours had closed up so soon after it had opened. It does indeed remain open, though I have no idea how long it might stay that way. My knowledge concerning its dynamics is no better than yours. I can only posit theories, and it’s entirely possible that my previous theory – that this Ricky had suddenly opened the day I began to receive your universe’s Internet on my computer – may be wrong. It may have always been there, waiting for the perfect conditions that would enable me to discover it. Goddess only knows.
Yes, I touched on religion in my first note – in fact, the absurd beliefs of some of your rulers there in what you call the United States of America were what originally prompted my fear that my own universe might somehow become infected by yours via this odd portal – but I see now that a few of you have some even goofier notions, so much goofier, in fact, that I’m no longer afraid of any sort of thought virus you might send. It’s simply too ridiculous to be afraid of you kooks.
The religion in which I was brought up believes in dual gods – or rather, a God and a Goddess – one compassionate, the other vengeful. It shouldn’t take much thought to figure out which gender is which. But people who were brought up in this faith tend to believe that the Goddess is for praying to and the God is for swearing at. The simple explanation for this is that women seem to be better listeners. This religion (and I’ve yet to find any evidence of its existence in your universe, and trust me, I’ve looked) is called Nucleology, as in the nucleus of an atom, I suppose, which, cosmically speaking, requires two to tango, unless we’re talking about hydrogen, but we need not concern ourselves with a science lesson at the moment, especially since you’re probably smarter about it than I am. But one of Nucleology’s problems (of which, like any religion, there are a multitude) is that God – the One Who doesn’t listen very well – has most of the power, whereas Goddess – the One Who is compassionate and retains information – is relatively powerless, because, I suppose, the compassionate always wind up with the rotten end of the deal. What results is that Goddess is required to take your petition to God. As I said, Nucleology’s got its problems, but it’s rather convenient for those of us who are virtually without faith anyway. You hear a lot of phrases like “Goddess tried” and “Deaf God” and my own particular favorite, “Goddess only knows,” with its implied rejoinder, and God isn’t listening. (There is also the phrase “God-damn-it,” apparently popular in your universe as well, but I doubt that when you say it you also have in mind its own implied answer, because Goddess isn’t that cruel.) What little faith I have left in Nucleology mainly involves an image of God and Goddess in some sort of divine high-rise apartment somewhere, perpetually bickering. It’s the recovering Nucleologist’s tendency, when there’s a particularly nasty thunderstorm or natural disaster, to conclude that God is having a tantrum again because Goddess has once more bested Him in an argument. Nucleology may seem a bit ineffectual to those of you who damn people to hell for their sexual preferences or throw bombs at one another over a couple of cartoons, but that’s what most Nucleologists like about Nucleology – its harmlessness. The very best quality of any religion, in my mind, is that it do little to no harm.
That is not why I’ve been away, though. I’ve been busy trying to figure out what, exactly, a poetry slam is. I think I have a fairly good idea of what it is now, though if I’m wrong, the only way you can set me straight is by leaving a note on this web site. I encourage that, in fact. How often do you get the chance to speak to someone who exists in an entirely Other Universe? (I make an exception for your version of Laura Bush, of course, who happens to live with just such an individual.) This, though, is what I’ve gleaned: competitors are required to be entertaining for three minutes, at the end of which time they’re scored, like in the Olympics. Even though you call it a poetry slam, the “poet” doesn’t necessarily have to be poetic, just as long as he’s entertaining. (I use the personal pronoun ‘he’ here because a slam poet cannot possibly be a good listener, what with the fact that he seems to try to fill every single nanosecond of those three minutes with words.) There seems to be an emphasis on performance. Oh, and the “poet” with the highest score gets a prize or something.
It rather reminds me of the Kill the President contests we have in my universe. The process is the same (including the emphasis on performance), except contestants don’t pretend to have composed poetry; instead, they describe how they, if given the opportunity, would end their president’s life. These contests are not limited to the American United States – they occur in just about every country that has a president – so some of the contests are international, just as your poetry slam has apparently become. It’s obvious why you have poetry slams instead. Evidently, in your United States of America, it’s illegal to talk about killing the president. Maybe you should change that law. You’ve certainly had your share of assassinated presidents, so having such a law doesn’t seem to be doing you any good.
Judging by the few “slam poems” I’ve been able to witness on your Internet, the politics of your poetry slams tend to lean toward the left, so maybe this is the sole purpose of these events: to take out political frustrations that would otherwise be alleviated by being able to freely discuss how you would like to quicken things to the moment when your president is forced to make peace with his God. (It’s not necessary to make peace with your Goddess, of course. That’s rarely the problem.)
We also like euphemisms in this universe (as I said previously, the similarities are more multitudinous than the differences), but I think we like them a bit more than you, so perhaps your universe is a sliver more honest than ours. But I’m fairly proud of that one for death: to quicken things to the moment when you’re forced to make peace with your God. Perhaps I should start a contest for the most convoluted euphemisms. Something to think about, before I talk to you again….
Here’s hoping that the moment when you’re forced to make peace with your God is postponed indefinitely,
– Mike Ivy
From The Next Universe Over
* Random isolated cusp incursion – or Ricky for short.

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Dear Friend,
Please do not be alarmed by what I am about to tell you, but I have been monitoring your universe for some time now. How I have accomplished this strange feat is as much a mystery to me as it should be to you. Accidents happen. (Those of you who believe that there are no such things as accidents are probably the same people who believe that there are no such things as parallel universes. My answer to both these questions is, Oh, but there are, there are.)

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