What time is it, my boy?
What the hell does it matter to you what time it is? Unless hours were glasses of wine, minutes were chickens, clocks were whores’ tongues, sundials were whorehouse signs and the sun itself were a hot woman in a flame-coloured dress, I don’t see any reason why you would need to know the time.
And for those who don’t speak Shakespearian…
Falstaff: what time is it?
Hal: HAHAHA YOU FAT OLD ALCOHOLIC MANWHORE WHY THE FUCK D’YOU WANT TO KNOW? AHAHAHA