The amber liquid took on a life of it's own. As soon as the cap was popped, foam surged out of the bottle like molten lava erupting from Mount St Helens. It overflowed down the sides and pooled around the base, rivulets forming streams in two directions. Mopping it up was a worthless endeavor doing nothing to stem the flood. Must slurp instead!
Bubbles formed deep inside and raced up the neck of the bottle with reckless abandon, leaping and caroming with an urgent need to escape their glass prison. No sooner had those been ingurgitated when their sisters and brothers and cousins and uncles and nephews filled the neck and overflowed.
Would the liquid inside ever tire? Would it settle down and allow itself to be imbibed less frantically? Less frothily? Less burp-inspiringly? Or would it continue to effervesce until the bottle was empty?
I like beer. But I like beer better when it behaves submissively, awaiting my summons before it tickles my tongue and cools my throat as I contentedly swallow. So please. Please don't shake my beer. It's just wrong in so many ways.
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