Question: I had this one guy, who enjoyed being a part time bully and part time neutral to me. To say the least he was annoying. He'd take the liberty to hide my backpack, borrow my books without consent, doodle scandalous stuff on my notebooks with a pen and yada yada. So one day, I was showing this cool trick I learned on an anatomy program on the TV to a couple of classmates who used to sit around me. The thing was that you can't flex your ring finger upwards if you put your middle finger under the palm (try that) We were all kids, and soon everyone in the class started staring at us weirdos looking laughing at out hands. The bully noticed it too, and came near to inquire about this hand stuff. I described the trick and he was impressed. And then, I saw our teacher walking up the corridor, just a couple paces behind the class door. So, I asked him (the bully) if he wanted to see another trick and to that he nodded a big yes. Cool, What I did was, that I grabbed his right arm by the thumb and put it on my throat right above the larynx. Then I quickly shifted my grip to his wrist. He without batting an eye, asked what I was doing, but then I started beating the desk with my other hand and made squeaking noises while pushing his hand against my throat harder with every turning head. And voila! Every one in the class (including the teacher) thought he was smothering me. After a few ifs and buts between him and the teacher, he was summoned at the principal's chambers, from where, later he was sent home, where presumably judging from the look on his face for the next few days, he was beat to crap by his folks. And after that, never was I ever bothered by anyone in the school.(^^) Question: How does the bully feel when confronted by the teacher? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- The bully felt misunderstood
- The bully felt angry
- The bully felt scared
- not enough information
Answer: The bully felt misunderstood

input with options: Not really that huge a deal, but we laughed about it for a while. My friends and I went to see the Gin Blossoms in 1993 at a small venue in Chicago. We were having some beers and enjoying the opening band (they were okay, but not memorable) when this guy came and stood right in front of my roommate. I mean, the floor was filling up, sure, but we'd landed a decent spot right in the middle and he came and stood right in front of her when there was plenty of room off to the side a bit. My roommate and our friend and I looked at each other and were like, "How rude!" Frankly, I was surprised my roommate didn't do or say anything - holding her tongue wasn't her forte. I half expected her to spank his bottom - I'd seen her do it before to get some guy's attention, and this guy was pretty cute. But when that same song came to an end, the guy turned around and actually apologized to all of us. He held up his camera and said he wanted a really good shot of the band as they were friends of his. He actually went and bought each of us a beer, so it totally worked out well. We thanked him and he took off. The only excuse I have for us is that we were in college and not glued to MTV or entertainment magazines, and really, only Hey Jealousy had hit the airwaves when we went to the concert. But sure enough, when the Gin Blossoms took the stage, Robin Wilson gave a shout out to those three girls he'd blocked the stage for earlier and hoped we'd enjoyed our beers. Like I said, it's pretty tame, but I thought he handled it with class, so it's always made me remember their music fondly. Question: who turned around === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- a girl
- not enough information
- A guy to apologize
- a dog
output: A guy to apologize

Q: That day, my mother picked me up from school, wearing the yellow sundress and shawl I remembered from our trip with Father the year before. She looked just like she did most days back then--a glamour queen, a movie star ("Just like Lena Horne," my friend Chloe had once said, "only darker--oh, sorry, Leah!"), but today her beauty somehow had a harder, more defiant edge to it. I could smell the expensive Dior perfume as soon as I opened the door, which surprised me, because my mom was usually fastidious about not getting perfume on her clothes. She was wearing her bug glasses--huge dark things with lenses that bulged out like fly eyes and reflected my face like a fun-house mirror. She had tied a yellow silk scarf around her hair and was taking deep pulls on a cigarette held between two immaculately manicured fingers. Only I knew about the nicotine stains she carefully covered with her special order "forest sable" cream each morning. Tiffany, a stupid but vicious senator's daughter who I had the misfortune of sharing a classroom with, suddenly dashed from inside the school, her face flushed. "Hello, Mrs. Wilson," she called. Before my mother could respond, she giggled and ran back to three of her friends waiting beyond the door. I could hear them laughing, but I was glad I couldn't understand their words. They were all fascinated with my mother--the black housekeeper who dressed like Katharine Hepburn and drove a Cadillac, whose daughter's "light toffee" skin indicated that she might just like her coffee with a lot of cream. Sometimes I hated those girls. "Get in the car, Leah," my mother said. Her already husky voice was pitched low, as though she'd been crying. That made me nervous. Why was she here? "Ma, Chloe was going to show me her dad's new camera. Can't I go home on the bus?" My mom pulled on the cigarette until it burned the filter, and then ground it into the car ashtray--already filled with forty or so butts. She always emptied out the ashtray each evening. Question: For how long were the girls probably laughing? === The answer to the above question is

OPTIONS:
- a few months
- a couple of minutes
- a few days
- not enough information

A:
a couple of minutes