"I will be ready."
That was epic.
As is well known, several of my friends and I are rock-paper-scissors warriors. Due to this fact, I was informed of a brew of beer whose bottle caps contained rps symbols on their undersides. At the market, beer and freezer pasta are in the same aisle. I decided to search the beer side for the lager in question while passing through. While many beers advertise themselves with bright, colorful boxes, my eye was caught by a simple box of white high grade cardboard, bearing on it the simple image of a bottle of beer.
It was the brew.
I grabbed a case. One of my fellow warriors, also aware of the existence of this beer, lives within walking distance of me. When he returned home, I informed him that I would be coming, brew in hand. Open, drink, reveal. Should our throws clash, whomever finished their bottle first would be declared the winner.
I began my march.
Out of the asphalt sea, and up the hill I stormed, the bard at my hip providing blood pumping music. Providentially, a song about a king challenging a rival warlord to man-to-man combat, accompanied me on my journey. As I neared the battleground, I pulled my arms free from the sleeves of my jacket. I wanted to be ready.
He opened the door.
I drew the bottles from my inner jacket pockets, cross armed. The jacket fell to the ground, increasing my range of motion, and revealing my "Time for a Guinness" shirt. Fatefull, that I had chosen this shirt on this morning. With brews in hand, we gave the count down, opened our beers, and began the mad race to throw.
He finished first.
This put me in danger. Should our throws clash, I would be declared the loser. I finished my beer, and we both revealed. It was a tense moment, as each knew what the other had thrown, but not what we ourselves had struck with. He had thrown scissors, as he often does in real matches. We turned our caps inward. If I threw paper, I would lose outright. If I threw scissors, I'd lose per the rules of engagement.
I threw rock.
As is well known, several of my friends and I are rock-paper-scissors warriors. Due to this fact, I was informed of a brew of beer whose bottle caps contained rps symbols on their undersides. At the market, beer and freezer pasta are in the same aisle. I decided to search the beer side for the lager in question while passing through. While many beers advertise themselves with bright, colorful boxes, my eye was caught by a simple box of white high grade cardboard, bearing on it the simple image of a bottle of beer.
It was the brew.
I grabbed a case. One of my fellow warriors, also aware of the existence of this beer, lives within walking distance of me. When he returned home, I informed him that I would be coming, brew in hand. Open, drink, reveal. Should our throws clash, whomever finished their bottle first would be declared the winner.
I began my march.
Out of the asphalt sea, and up the hill I stormed, the bard at my hip providing blood pumping music. Providentially, a song about a king challenging a rival warlord to man-to-man combat, accompanied me on my journey. As I neared the battleground, I pulled my arms free from the sleeves of my jacket. I wanted to be ready.
He opened the door.
I drew the bottles from my inner jacket pockets, cross armed. The jacket fell to the ground, increasing my range of motion, and revealing my "Time for a Guinness" shirt. Fatefull, that I had chosen this shirt on this morning. With brews in hand, we gave the count down, opened our beers, and began the mad race to throw.
He finished first.
This put me in danger. Should our throws clash, I would be declared the loser. I finished my beer, and we both revealed. It was a tense moment, as each knew what the other had thrown, but not what we ourselves had struck with. He had thrown scissors, as he often does in real matches. We turned our caps inward. If I threw paper, I would lose outright. If I threw scissors, I'd lose per the rules of engagement.
I threw rock.