On my way to work this morning I found myself sitting behind an SUV in the left-turn lane at Shaw and Palm avenues displaying this license-plate frame:
DON’T MAKE ME CALL
MY FLYING MONKEY’S
I called the Apostrophe Police, but I got put on hold. Instead, I pondered: If provoked, what would one call for that belonged to a flying monkey? Would it be a flying monkey’s uncle? A flying monkey’s security detail? A flying monkey’s wit and sarcasm? A flying monkey’s instinctual impulse to fling feces at an adversary? A flying monkey’s disdain for monkeys that can’t fly?
English teachers everywhere want to know.
UPDATE: My friend Amy Biancolli, arts writer extraordinaire at the Albany Times-Union, came up on Facebook with the definitive answer to my question of what one could call for that belonged to a flying monkey:
MY FLYING MONKEY’S MAMA. Cuz you don’t wanna tick her off, boy.
Thanks for clearing that up, Amy.