The Mangoes of Madagascar

If you’re unskilled with knives and don’t dare risk losing one of your pretty fingers while trying to slice a mango properly in order to enjoy a healthful and tasty mid-afternoon snack, then I suppose you have no choice but to do what I did. You have no option other than to peel the skin off with a few of your fingers (still pretty for having not been rendered bloody stubs thanks to clumsy knife-wielding) and then to lift the fruit to your face with both hands, preferably in the specific direction of your gaping maw, and gnaw through it like a ravenous, blood-thirsty cannibal.
Try to ignore the fact that tearing through the mango’s pulpy flesh is not unlike tearing through that of, say, size-wise, a lemur’s head. Try not to think about it. Remember, it’s a mango, and the sticky liquid that’s drooling from your lips, dripping down your chin, and running rivers between your fingers is just mango juice and not animal blood.
And the next time you find yourself in the company of a lemur and feel the need to snack, try slicing it carefully with a sharp knife and eating it primly with a dainty fork from a pretty dessert plate so you aren’t reminded of mango carnage.
Bonus:  Is this the sound of someone eating a mango? Or the sound of a lemur? You tell me.