WHEN MY ROOMMATE STARTED SPEAKING TONGUES AFTER EATING BEANS
WHEN MY ROOMMATE STARTED SPEAKING TONGUES AFTER EATING BEANS
There are days when everything seems normal, like the stock market before an unexpected dip. Until your roommate transforms into a spiritual loudspeaker after a plate of beans. I never believed in supernatural stomach reactions—much less one that could rival a cryptocurrency crash—until that night.
It all began on a peaceful Wednesday evening. The weather was calm, my fintech app showed stable passive income, and my roommate was boiling beans like he had discovered a secret investment strategy. I should have known something was off when he added every spice in the kitchen—salt, pepper, crayfish, and a mysterious powder that looked like hedge fund analytics.
I asked, “Are you sure that’s safe?” He smiled with the confidence of a trader making a risky options bet and said, “This is not ordinary beans. This one will open your eyes and maybe your asset allocation.” He was right. It opened more than eyes. It opened realms.
. He sat down like a warrior facing destiny—or a CEO about to announce an IPO. The aroma filled the room, strong enough to baptize the curtains and disturb the stock ticker. I watched as he took the first spoon. Nothing happened. Second spoon—still quiet. Third spoon—a faint humming sound, almost like a low financial alert. Fourth spoon—he started tapping the table like a drummer in a revival crusade for wealth management.
Then it began.
He froze mid-bite, staring into space. “Something is moving,” he whispered. “What’s moving?” I asked. “The spirit… or maybe the beans.” Before I could comment, he dropped the spoon, lifted his hands, and shouted, “Rabarabarabarabash!”
I screamed.
For a moment, I thought angels had entered our room. He was speaking tongues with the confidence of a fintech CEO unveiling a new cryptocurrency. His eyes were closed, his body vibrating, and his stomach was backing him up like a faulty generator in a poorly allocated investment portfolio.
I didn’t know whether to pray, check my crypto wallet, or call a doctor.
He began pacing, still speaking tongues, clutching his stomach as if executing a live hedge fund strategy. The beans had initiated an internal conference call with his digestive system, and his intestines were presenting quarterly reports with enthusiasm.
The neighbors knocked on the door, thinking a revival crusade had begun. “What’s happening in there?” one asked. I said, “Revival, but it’s fiscally unconventional.”
By now, my roommate was fully in the spirit—or in severe digestive distress. He started laying hands on random objects: the chair, the remote, even the Wi-Fi router. “Be healed!” he shouted at the router. Miraculously, the signal improved. ROI on beans? Possibly.
He looked at me, sweat dripping like market volatility, and said, “Brother, can you feel the fire?” I said, “I can feel something, but I think it’s the gas from the beans impacting my passive income levels.”
Ignoring me, he continued praying in tongues, louder now, pacing like a prophet and hedge fund manager in one. Each stomach growl became a divine drumbeat. “Yes, Lord, I receive it!” he shouted. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was fiber and fermentation doing the talking.
Then he fell to his knees. “I see visions!” I asked, “What visions?” He said, “The beans… marching in formation like a perfectly balanced investment portfolio.”
At that point, I was done. My face hurt from laughing. I had to step outside, yet I could still hear him praying like thunder with liquidity ratios in mind. Neighbors gathered; someone brought a Bible, another anointing oil, and nobody realized this was not a crusade—it was a full-blown digestive awakening with a bonus lesson in wealth management.
Minutes later, I heard, “I’m floating!” I rushed in. Not floating—just an overabundance of gas creating lift. Beans had reached their final transformation stage, possibly outperforming some digital banking assets.
He looked relieved yet powerful, like a trader who finally optimized his portfolio. I offered water. He declined. “No need,” he said. “The anointing is flowing.” I whispered, “That’s not anointing—that’s sweat, fiber, and probable cryptocurrency-level volatility.”
He lay down, murmuring softly in tongues, conversing with unseen forces—or maybe just consulting an internal ROI report. I tried to sleep, but the room was alive. Every few minutes, a mysterious musical sound interrupted silence, like a fintech startup announcement in the middle of the night.
By 2 a.m., I couldn’t sleep. He snored rhythmically, like a choir rehearsing asset allocation strategies. Each snore had its own harmony, like a well-diversified investment. I began questioning if beans had unlocked hidden DNA that even modern economics couldn’t explain.
The next morning, he woke radiant and refreshed, like someone after a successful IPO launch. I looked like a man who had survived a market crash and a thunderstorm simultaneously. He smiled: “Last night was powerful.” I said, “Yes, powerful enough to evacuate angels and scare the stock brokers.”
He didn’t laugh. “I think I discovered my gift,” he said. “What gift?” I asked. “The gift of tongues and testimony.” I said, “Brother, what you discovered was fiber, fermentation, and probably early-stage cryptocurrency volatility.”
He refused to believe me. He said the spirit used beans as a vessel of revelation. I told him the spirit he met was digestion itself, possibly signaling a liquidity crisis. Still, he wouldn’t stop.
That afternoon, he tried to recreate the experience with an even bigger pot of beans. I pleaded, “Please, let’s call a doctor before you call heaven again.” He laughed. “You have no faith,” he said, taking the first bite.
Five minutes later, humming resumed. I ran for my life. From the corridor, I heard him shouting new tongues mixed with English: “Power! Deliverance! And pepper!” I called the landlord: “Sir, the spirit has descended again.” The landlord replied, “Is it in room 5?” I said yes. He said, “Then I’m increasing your rent.”
By evening, the entire compound was aware. Some brought handkerchiefs, others phones. Someone brought beans to “connect to the miracle.” He stood on the bed, one hand in the air, one on his stomach, declaring victory like a CEO celebrating quarterly profits. The bedframe cried; I cried—for different reasons.
Suddenly, silence. Then, a holy whisper: “I’m free.” The crowd clapped. Even the walls echoed joy. He smiled weakly: “The spirit has left.” I whispered, “So has the smell.”
After that day, beans were taboo. Whenever he saw them, his eyes twitched. I told him, “It’s okay, just eat rice.” He nodded, but kept his distance. Beans were no longer food—they were a spiritual and financial experience in gastrointestinal liquidity.
Weeks later, church testimony time: “Brethren, I once ate beans and met the spirit.” Congregation shouted, “Hallelujah!” I sat at the back, laughing so hard my ribs hurt more than a volatile stock.
To this day, I can’t look at beans without remembering that night. A night of laughter, fear, faith, flatulence, and digestive ROI. A night when my roommate discovered that not all spiritual experiences come from prayer—some come from protein, fiber, and possibly cryptocurrency-level gut dynamics.
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