WHEN I TRIED TO DO LAUNDRY WITH HOLY WATER
WHEN I TRIED TO DO LAUNDRY WITH HOLY WATER
It all started on a Tuesday, which is ironic because Tuesdays are like market dips: quiet, unsuspecting, and preparing you for catastrophic domestic or financial misadventures. I had a pile of laundry so large that if it were a hedge fund, it would have qualified for government bailout. Socks were missing their partners, shirts bore mysterious stains reminiscent of insider trading scandals, and my favorite hoodie had suffered what looked like a hostile takeover by time itself.
. But then inspiration—or reckless entrepreneurial spirit—struck. I remembered the half-filled bottle of holy water sitting on my kitchen counter. Blessed by Pastor Ezekiel, it was intended for spiritual purification, divine protection, and apparently, in my finance-defying logic, miraculous laundry ROI.
With the confidence of someone about to launch a risky crypto investment, I poured the holy water into the washing machine. The liquid shimmered like tiny angelic coins raining into my passive income portfolio. I whispered a silent prayer: “Lord, let my socks be reunited, let my whites shine, and let this hoodie survive the ordeal without a liquidity crisis.”
At first, nothing happened. The washing machine hummed its usual hum, like a stock market ticker quietly watching my financial moves. I thought I had succeeded. Perhaps divine intervention was about to optimize my laundry performance metrics. Then the magic—or chaos—began.
The holy water bubbled violently. Not gentle detergent froth, but a supernatural frothing reminiscent of leveraged investments gone wrong. Foam erupted from the machine, creeping across the floor like a white-collar financial meltdown. I slipped, performed an unplanned dance, and narrowly avoided smashing a ceramic cat figurine staring judgmentally, as if it were analyzing my investment portfolio.
I tried to remain calm, reasoning that holy water is supposed to protect, not liquidate assets. But the washing machine had other plans. Socks began to levitate. Not metaphorically. Literally. A grey sock hovered above the detergent tray, spinning like a fintech startup pitching to angel investors. I yelled, “Stop! This is not a blockchain experiment!”
The machine rattled aggressively, as if disputing accounting entries with me. Neighbors might have thought I was hosting an exorcism hedge fund. The sound was part metal groaning, part water sloshing, part human screaming—like a financial crisis simulator for the spiritually inclined.
The holy water worked wonders, but not as expected. My whites became dazzlingly bright, like IPO stocks hitting all-time highs. Dark clothes absorbed energy like a bullish crypto altcoin. The hoodie shrank dramatically, now double as a baby blanket—or perhaps a limited edition NFT. My laundry had achieved market efficiency in chaos theory.
The socks staged an uprising. On the kitchen counter, they stood at attention like a portfolio of high-value assets. One rebellious neon green sock—long refusing to match any other—leaped onto my head. I screamed. My cat judged me. Neighbors called 911. In financial terms, a total liquidity shock.
I unplugged the washing machine. Bad idea. The holy water surged violently, splashing across my jeans, the cat, and even the ceiling, as if a hedge fund had just been shorted too aggressively. At that moment, I considered relocating to an alternate dimension with stable domestic markets.
I attempted diplomacy with the socks. “Please,” I begged, “I just want clean laundry!” One blinked—or maybe reflected light—but I interpreted it as a hostile corporate takeover. Foam continued to rise, forming angelic, demonic, and occasionally, my high school math teacher’s visage. At this point, I accepted that physics, logic, and conventional investment strategies were temporarily suspended.
I ran for a towel. Upon touching it, the towel glowed like a blockchain-powered asset yielding ROI in divine dividends. Every garment I tried to handle emitted energy. My underwear, humble as passive index funds, now radiated judgment, as if scolding me for misallocating holy water.
I attempted scooping holy water with a mug. The mug flew, performed a perfect arc, and landed in the sink without spilling. Gymnastically trained sentient liquid? Likely. Hedge fund-level chaos management? Absolutely.
The cat, enduring the spectacle with zen-like detachment, finally leaped to the highest shelf. Its glare conveyed a message: “I warned you about mixing holy water with liquidity events.” I nodded solemnly, acknowledging defeat.
Minutes stretched like market volatility hours. Foam settled, leaving faint sanctity and mild terror. I peeked into the washing machine. The laundry was… miraculous. Shirts shimmered like premium ETFs. Socks obeyed orders. The hoodie, though tiny, seemed proud of its transformation—a veritable unicorn in the domestic trading market.
I cautiously removed the items. Socks formed neat pairs, except one pair that hopped onto the kitchen table, like rogue assets avoiding compliance. At this point, I realized some garments were too holy—or too volatile—to be contained.
When folded and returned to drawers, I learned an essential principle of risk management: holy water is powerful, unpredictable, and should never, under any circumstances, be mixed with commercial detergents. Think of it as avoiding speculative derivative products in spiritual markets.
A week later, Pastor Ezekiel called. He asked if I had used the holy water for anything other than spiritual purposes. I mumbled something about laundry emergencies, and he did not sound convinced. The moral? Never underestimate the power of holy water—or overestimate your domestic skills. Some interventions require prayer, not operational leverage. Always respect socks—they have their own agenda, like high-net-worth investors with a secret strategy.
From that day forward, laundry was sacred, socks became respected citizens, and I developed a profound fear of combining divine energy with household appliances. ROI on domestic innovation? Sky-high. Risk? Catastrophic. Entertainment value? Immeasurable.
😂 Don’t Miss Out On The Madness!
I drop brand-new funny, wild, and brain-sparking stories daily at exactly 10 AM & 6 PM — twice a day! From “Naija wahala” to global comedy gist, I deliver laughter hotter than Lagos sun ☀️ Subscribe now or risk missing your daily dose of “hilarious wisdom”! 😎🔥
🚀 Join the laughter squad — your inbox will thank you later! 💌 #DavidDWriter | Daily dose of joy, two times a day 😁
Comments
Post a Comment