Congratulations Mango Stu!

Your name is Mango Stu and you love mangos.

This would be enough most days. But today your love of mangos is so strong it’s going to convince some infinitely powerful beings that the world is worth saving.

You’ll be driving down I-95 when the aliens come for you. They’ll come worldlessly, hauling your Corolla off the road with a swift jerk and clear up into the air. Most of the car will be plastic and polymer but you’d never know by the magnetic force that will wrench you into the sky and away from your precious earth.

By the time you understand what’s going on you’ll have been cut out of your vehicle and dumped on the floor of an empty room. The walls will be stark white and curve upwards, leaving you with the feeling that you’re trapped inside of an impossibly large egg. Then the probing will begin.

It won’t feel invasive. It’ll actually be quite gentle, a feeling like you’re resting on ocean foam. You’ll remember things, slowly at first. Childhood, your first kiss, your first bike. You’ll recall losing your virginity, a party in college, a day at work where you were upset.

Then memories will begin pouring in all at once. They’ll lose their delicate repose. In its place there will be a torrent of thought that overwhelms you. As your mind fills you’ll become unable to manage the volume of thoughts and times existing within your skull and you’ll lose consciousness, your mind buffering itself against the invasive aliens trying to determine whether or not they should eradicate the earth in a ball of fire.

So here’s what will happen while you’re out. The aliens will see you and generally most people acting pretty horribly. They’ll see that the world is kind of a miserable place where people are awful to each other. And then they’ll stumble upon a bank of memories all about food.

Most of them will be hum drum internal treatises on deserts. But one memory will stand out to them, a missive on the wonders of a perfect mango.

Not just any mango but a mango ripened in the sun, chilled before serving and diced up just right. A mango that you can squeeze with just enough give to know it’s perfect, with just enough juice to make it soft but not enough to make it soggy.

The aliens will catch sight of this memory, this constant in your world and they’ll see something there. Some potential for perfection, acceptance for imperfection and aspiration towards wonder. They’ll keep probing you a while, but at that moment they’ll collectively decide not to murder you and everyone you know. They’ll also decide to give your car a tune up and deposit you back at your home, sleeping soundly, whenever they feel like it.

So you’ll have saved the world and gotten a free ride out of the deal. Which is pretty great for you. If the world knew we’d all give you a nickname and you’d cherish it until the end of your days. But no one will know, no one spare the few who read this tale and so we’ll just leave the nickname here for you, should you ever find it. It’s yours if you like. Thanks for liking mangos so much.

Congratulations Mango Stu!