Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can. He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand." He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch" A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake. He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. According to the above context, answer the following question. What does cat food have to do with anything?

OPTIONS:
- He had enjoyed eating it as a child
- not enough information
- He was forced to eat it while in the Air Force.
- He had used it as fillers for chili he cooked for his comrades

Answer: not enough information

He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio. "Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars. "I don't really know." "You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately. "I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins." "Those sins being...?" "I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?" This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time. "It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us." "You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?" "Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?" "In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely. "Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." According to the above context, answer the following question. How long was the radio playing before the author shut it off?

OPTIONS:
- Fifteen minutes
- Five minutes
- Half an hour
- not enough information

Answer: Five minutes

On Christmas Eve Slawek Przekosniak received an SMS with these wishes: Wishing yo good ping super new". He didn't know who sent him that surprisingly enigmatic message. And he doesn't know to this day. A pity, because thanks to that person he reached his current status and number 67 on the list of the wealthiest Poles. Back then, during that beautiful, rusty white Christmas Eve night, Przekosniak, who was rudely kicked out from a social network for utopian fanatics of extreme phobias (www.ilovefobia.pl) just a few days earlier, got an idea. It was a quite good idea too, and the next SMS ("All at cart by unintentionally only honest lamb") convinced him it was the best idea of his life. Slawek Przekosniak, together with a friend from ilovefobia.pl - Czesiek Ciag, decided to set up an on-line service, through which one could send SMS greetings to mobile phones. And the most important feature of the service was that texts of the wishes were not going to be predetermined and there would be no set list of pre-selected options. Messages would be created by a special software program from random words provided by a customer. Such a system would allow for truly unique greetings, and after all, nobody said they had to be comprehensible. Czesiek took care of the development of the software, which for now they named "John of the Disc". Czesiek had suitable experience in the matter. While on the forum for (select as appropriate) phobics he designed an application, which created slogans for street protests. The application, even though it produced phrases completely illogical and nonsensical, became quite popular, and some of its most unique catchphrases you could have seen on TV - "Out With There Harm Out!" or "To Them Bag Away Now Now!" Two future men of success got to work and the SMS greeting portal bestbestbest.pl went live just before Easter. According to the above context, answer the following question. What is probably true about Slawek Przekosniak

OPTIONS:
- He Celebrates Christmas
- not enough information
- He is polish
- He uses a smartphone

Answer:
He Celebrates Christmas