Problem: OPTIONS:
- No one
- not enough information
- A smoker on the bus
- The bus driver
Q: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: When I was entering my Sophomore year in High School, we had just moved from a single 4-way stop-sign town, to a bigger city with actual city buses! In order to get to school, I had to ride a city bus for the 1st time, without information/assistance! I barely managed to squeeze in and had to stand on the step of the packed bus on the way to school. BTW, smoking was STILL happening on these buses! I noticed every time we went around a corner, it seemed a bell would ring. I falsely assumed it meant HANG ON! So, when it was time to return home, the bus was not as crowded, and I actually was able to sit down. Again, every time we turned the corner, a bell would ring. So I held on tight! As we neared my bus stop to get off, the bus whizzed past it, without stopping! Panic began to set in quickly. I already had a very strange, long day in a new 3 story school building, and I smelled like cigarette smoke! I quickly moved to the empty seat behind the driver, and told him he didn't stop where I needed to get off. He asked me if I rang the bell. I admitted to him, I had no knowledge of riding on a city bus. He was kind, explained to pull the bell pull 1 block prior to my stop. He explained he would circle back around and I could get off at my stop on the return trip. I was SO relieved! However, now I was 1/2 hour late getting home, especially stressed and tired from the new school and bus fiasco, AND I smelled like cigarette smoke! When I walked into my house, I was immediately confronted on why was I late, why did I smell like smoke, etc.! I burst into tears, and had to tell about my horrible day, but I didn't get into trouble! WHEW! Question: Who asked the high school student if he rang the bell? Answer:
Answer: The bus driver

Problem:OPTIONS:
- All of the residences were in charge
- not enough information
- The author
- The Don

Read the following context and answer the question. Context: It's axiomatic that all cultures reserve a special place for food in their daily and social lives. For something as simple as a cuppa joe, we schedule and juggle our time to meet at predetermined locations to share conversation and libation. Meals require even more effort and the social ramifications increase. One is expected to show up on time, sometimes dress to certain standards and bring one or many bottles of wine as a thoughtful gift to the hosts. And of course, the food is just an excuse to get together with friends to enjoy a meal, share stories, to discuss or seduce, to seal an agreement or act as a prelude to a severance of relations (frequently unintentionally). I was first introduced to dining for pleasure as opposed to sustenance while at the University of New Brunswick. I lived in Bridges House, one of the men's residences. The young, eager, bright-eyed students in each residence were kept more or less in check by a Don. Each residence had its share of maniacs and troublemakers who were at university to get some form of education, alcohol poisoning or a social disease; sometimes all three. The Don's job was to act as a mentor and prison warden. Imagine a building housing up to 100 young adult men. It doesn't take much to start a riot. In our case, the Don was Locutus. When we met him, he must have been in his forties but looked to us adolescents to be older than Father Time. He was immediately dubbed 'Grandpa Munster'. With the tender sensitivity of males of our age, we didn't bother to hide this from him and he took it in good humour. In point of fact, Locutus was a great Don; firm when he needed to be and understanding and helpful as appropriate. You crossed this guy at your peril, but he was generally pretty tolerant. Question: Who was in charge of the housing: Answer:
****
A: The Don

input: OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Hoping to get in to party
- likes hipster art parties
- Has newer met Dylan Now, answer this question: Read the following context and answer the question. Context: I showed up at the address on Columbine's invitation just before eleven; it was a converted warehouse in an industrial zone on the city's north side. Since it was a Saturday night, everything else was empty for miles. The parking lot was filled with sports cars, hybrids, and shiny suburban tanks. The door facing the parking lot was open, spilling out muted lights and the din of yuppie chatter. It cast a somewhat foreboding aura over the entrance. The first thing I noticed as I approached was the beefy refrigerator in a rented tux blocking the doorway. The second thing was the surveillance camera perched on the wall above his head. I had stopped home and changed first, so I was sure I was dressed mostly appropriately for some rich faux-hipster art party - charcoal gray pinstripe jacket over a TV on the Radio t-shirt, skinny cuffed jeans, Docs, and a black fedora. I certainly didn't look any worse than the other idiots I saw filing in and out of the door. I even had an invitation. So I was fairly confident I'd be able to gain admission to this thing without incident. "No, absolutely not," the doorman said, pressing a meaty palm into my chest. "I was invited!" I said, exasperated. "I have documentation." I waved the rave card in front of his face. "No dice." I stepped aside to let a couple of aging goths through the door and wondered for a moment if the doorman somehow knew who I was. Then I noticed the ear piece he was wearing and my eyes darted back to the surveillance camera. "Motherfucker," I spat and raised both arms to flip off the camera. I didn't know it at the time, but at that moment Dylan Maxwell was sitting in front of a wall of monitors, laughing his ass off. Question: The narator is probably: Answer:
A:
output:
Hoping to get in to party