Two cannibals are having lunch. As they were about half-way through, one turns to the other and asks, "How's it going down there?" The other replies, "Me? I'm having a ball!"
Today's contest is a real challenge, so extra good luck to you, ol' buddy ol' pal. Also, Adam is running away with victory thus far, so if you chumps wanna shot at the prize pack (rumored to be valued at between $.46 and $22.31) you better get your groove on. Okay, that being said, here we go:
A plane travels at 612 m.p.h. from Albequerque, catching the jet stream tailwind at 3:02 CMT, exactly two hours and forty-four minutes into its flight. A bus leaves the Greyhound station in New Orleans (you know the one, just a few blocks northwest of the French quarter) at 11:07 EST. Mr. T is on that bus, carrying among other things, a small tin of Bag Balm and a half pack of Newport Lights 100s. On the plane is Paul Rubens, travelling with nothing but a carry-on filled with Prell. If they are scheduled to meet in South Chicago (a forty minute cab ride from the Amtrak station) at noon tomorrow, answer me this:
What time must that make it right now?
a) Alka-Seltzer; could see that one coming from the first line
b) Not telling
c) oops, there's the phone again...
d) vagina
You're all so very clever, but shaved chimps in laboratory experiments have fallen to seizure after exposure to this contest and twenty eight mL of single malt Irish whiskey, so by no means can I accept responsibility for the outcome. All I can say is that if we can put a man on the moon (like that really happened) we should be able to do something else, too.
Good luck, and don't lick your deodorant.
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