Problem:OPTIONS:
- on a vacation
- not enough information
- to the port-a-pot
- to the beach

I was 14 at the time. My family and I took a family vacation to Tybee Island, Georgia. It is a beautiful place that I would highly recommend. I told my family that I was going to go find a port-a-pot. So I head off by myself. I'm in the port-a-pot, i'm in there for roughly 10 minutes. (you can assume what I was doing) I wash my hands and get ready to leave the port-a-pot, and I tried to open the door and it was locked. I'm claustrophobic, so I start to FREAK OUT. I started banging on the door, running into the door with all of my weight. Nothing was helping. I then start crying, I thought for sure that I was going to die. I knew it was the end, at the age of 14, locked in a port-a-pot, in 95 degree weather in the middle of a beach in Georgia. Looking back, i'm curious as to why my family never came to look for me, I was gone for like 30 minutes. So I'm banging on the door continuously, bawling my eyes out. Then a man opened the door for me, from the outside. He was about 6'3 with dreads about 12 inches long and weighed about 280 pounds. I ran out of the port-a-pot and jumped on the guy and gave him a hug and told him that I loved him and that he saved my life. I don't know how he managed to open the door for me, but I definitely know that my 14 year old self owes that man my life. I'm not sure where he is in life, or what he's doing, but I hope God is blessing him abundantly. It is definitely a funny story to tell my friends. Question: where did 14-year-old boy go? === The answer to the above question is
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A: to the port-a-pot

Problem:OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- A young man.
- An older man.
- An old woman

I recall just one case of its kind. In my first year out of high school in college, I didn't quite get along with one vocal pipsqueak of a guy. Mid-year one afternoon post-dismissal, a small white car drove past dangerously close to me and honked as I made my way to the bus stand home. If there had actually been any malice intended, I would have been caught out totally by surprise. The next day, he wondered aloud why I did not respond or react to him flippantly wanting to ram me with his car as he drove by. To think of it, I had already taken a swipe at another guy whom I suspected of being behind the wheel less than an hour earlier. Professing some half-hearted disinterest, I thought and felt to myself that this episode wasn't over - yet. Fast forward some 4560 days later, this guy is suddenly absent from college for almost a week. Successive class lecturers note that it is not like him to skip classes without a valid reason. Late on the second day of absence, another lecturer asks our class about him. "His car crashed.", I state almost flippantly, with a weak spirit of retribution shining inside my gut. But as you would realize from answering this question it later turned out to be true. While driving at quite a clip near his home, he had barreled through a residential cross-junction and broadsided a delivery van that had charged through the open junction with no regulating traffic lights. The van ended up upside down on the road shoulder and his parents-issued car was out of commission for like, three weeks. He suffered a concussion and a shattered nasal septum from the impact and police issued the van driver a ticket for dangerous driving. Basically, he had joked about striking me with his car hit-and-run and I had later joked to that lecturer and the class that he had crashed his car - and it turned out I was right. Question: Who drove the car? === The answer to the above question is
****
A: A young man.

Problem:OPTIONS:
- an ironworker
- not enough information
- a nobleman
- a clocksmith

In this confessional age, TV, radio and print rely for much of their content on the sad stories of those 'victims' of life. The story goes something like this: There is the future 'victim' getting on with their quotidian activities and whoosh, they are whisked into a life of gambling, drugs, sex or junk food addiction. After years of struggle, they finally find redemption and become good people again. As in any good tale of redemption, there has to be a 'reason' for why our 'victim' fell off the rails. Take your pick: they were molested, their parents ran away from home, they were denied desserts except on Sundays. Just thinking about it brings a tear to my stony face. How can you not be moved by tales such as these. What is the precipitating cause of the misery in my life? Well, my mother was French and my father was English. And to make things worse, I was brought up Catholic! Yes folks, in today's shorthand of grievance, I'm a half-breed straddling Canada's great language divide and a religious bigot. My hometown was a mixture of French and English-speaking people and the results of their miscenagation. You could never tell by someone's last name who spoke your language (For instance, my good friend P. Arsenault spoke the Queen's English and my cousin Sean Doyle wouldn't have recognized an Oxford Dictionary if you shoved up his nose). As children, we were segregated by language; all the French-speaking kids went to one side of the school where they spoke French all the time. I was fortunate enough to be sent to the English side of the school and got to speak my native tongue. My parents decided my brother and sister wouldn't be quite so lucky. In an effort to bridge the great language divide, they both spent six years learning everything in French and mingling with the French people (My parents did this because it was the firm belief of all forward-thinking families that whatever road you took would be much smoother if you could speak both of Canada's official languages. As it turns out for my siblings and... Question: who is the author === The answer to the above question is
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A:
not enough information