Vacationing in Kentucky, Bob spent the night at a small motel outside of Louisville. In the morning, he asked the woman at the desk for directions to Churchill Downs. Not able to tell him, she called her husband from the back room.
“Churchill Downs?” he asked. “That’s the race track, isn’t it?” The tourist nodded. He hesitated and then said, “I’m really not sure. I think it’s somewhere south of the university. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help.”
At that point his wife left the room. The husband looked over his shoulder to make sure she had disappeared. Then he winked at the tourist, leaned over the counter and whispered, “Take Third Street ten-point-four miles through town. Go past the university and turn right on Central Avenue. After that, just look for the twin spires. You can’t miss ’em! Oh — and the south parking lot is closest to the entrance; try the buffalo wings — they’re pretty good; and I like White Lightning in the eighth.”
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