WHEN MY SLIPPERS WALKED AWAY DURING DELIVERANCE
WHEN MY SLIPPERS WALKED AWAY DURING DELIVERANCE
I never thought a pair of slippers could possess the cunning and audacity of a high-frequency trader in the stock market. Yet, on that fateful Sunday morning, my humble flip-flops decided to stage a full-on escape during deliverance. And yes, I witnessed the most dramatic footwear rebellion the world has ever seen, a spectacle rivaling a volatile cryptocurrency launch.
. It all started when I woke up late, as usual, and grabbed the first pair of slippers within reach. They were nothing special—brown, slightly worn, perfectly average—but in hindsight, they had the potential for hedge-fund-level strategy. Little did I know, these slippers harbored resentment akin to a trader whose portfolio was underperforming for weeks. I had left them under the bed, near the kitchen, and occasionally kicked them across the room like an amateur trying to manage digital assets without research.
As I entered the church, the atmosphere was thick with spiritual energy. People were crying, shouting, dancing, and waving their hands like algorithmic trading bots gone rogue. I, on the other hand, attempted to balance spiritual awakening with practical concerns: keeping my slippers firmly on my feet while maintaining a positive ROI in social dignity.
The first sign of trouble came when the choir launched into a particularly energetic hymn. I felt a subtle shift beneath my feet. My right slipper twitched. Then the left one. Did I just… feel movement? No, it must have been market volatility in my imagination. Slippers don’t have muscles. They don’t possess intent—unless they’ve been taking online fintech courses.
But they did.
Before I could react, my slippers executed a synchronized leap worthy of Olympic gymnastics, or perhaps a coordinated pump-and-dump in cryptocurrency. One flew straight under the pulpit. The other darted sideways into the congregation, narrowly missing a lady waving her hands and possibly a small child. Chaos ensued. People screamed—not in fear, but in sheer bewilderment. Some thought I was performing an interpretive dance of deliverance, a high-yield spiritual investment gone wrong. I wish I were.
I lunged for them, but each attempt only fueled their rebellion. They were fast, agile, and merciless—like day traders in a volatile stock market. The left slipper jumped onto the altar steps as if mocking my passive income ambitions. The right one slid under the preacher’s robe like a stealthy hedge fund manager hiding assets offshore. I chased desperately, knocking over a basket of church bulletins and nearly causing a domino effect of falling elderly parishioners.
By now, I was sweating like a CEO pitching a risky startup to venture capitalists in a sauna. My dignity? Gone. My hope of remaining upright and moderately sane? Gone. The congregation? Ecstatic. They clapped, cheered, and shouted things like, “The spirit has moved you!” I couldn’t explain that the spirit was probably rubber, wielding the power of high-yield returns in chaos.
The preacher spotted me flailing and shouted, “Child of God! Release yourself from earthly attachments!” I didn’t understand whether he meant spiritual burdens or my fleeing footwear. Either way, I was in no position to debate theology. My slippers were actively trying to escape their earthly prison and join a higher calling—perhaps a hedge fund of rebellious shoes.
I dove under the pews. The left slipper, sensing victory, performed a perfect slide under the organ. I lunged. Momentum sent me rolling into hymn books, my personal market crash of dignity. I emerged, triumphant in spirit but defeated in reality. The right slipper had climbed onto a chair, perching itself like a conquering king surveying a profitable investment empire.
It was then I realized something terrifying: the slippers were not merely animated—they were strategic. The left one moved to the front aisle, cutting off my path. The right one blocked the back, trapping me in a corridor of ecclesiastical doom, like being cornered in a leveraged trading position. I was surrounded. Outnumbered. Out-slippered. My portfolio of hope had crashed.
I tried reasoning with them. “Please! We have a service to attend! Sit still!” They ignored me. Typical rebellious footwear. I attempted bribery, offering snacks from my bag like dividends to coax market stability. Still nothing. I even considered apologizing for past injustices—like leaving them in a puddle outside—but it was too late. Their minds were made up. My slippers had gone full deliverance, IPO style.
The congregation mistook my frantic movements for a powerful spiritual demonstration. Hands raised in awe. Children mimicked my lunges. A few elderly women fainted in admiration. I was being celebrated for a performance I did not consent to, orchestrated entirely by rogue footwear with high liquidity and maximum leverage.
Eventually, I cornered the left slipper behind the hymn books. The right one, sensing defeat, attempted a last-minute getaway toward the exit. In a heroic move, I lunged, grabbing it mid-flight. Victory was mine—or so I thought. My slippers’ market had been temporarily stabilized.
As I celebrated, I failed to notice the altar boy approaching with a candle. In my jubilation, I tripped over the left slipper. Candle? Knocked over. Holy water? Spilled. Choir robes? Disheveled. Me? Covered in wax, water, and embarrassment—a portfolio collapse of epic proportions. The congregation erupted in applause. “Praise the Lord!” they shouted. I quietly wondered if the Lord was observing my liquidity crisis and laughing.
I returned to my seat, slippers now tamed, at least temporarily. But deep down, I knew this was not the end. Slippers, I realized, were creatures of ambition. They might rise again, seeking freedom during prayer, deliverance, or even a casual visit to the restroom. And when that day comes, I will be ready… or at least, I hope so.
Since that day, I’ve treated my slippers with the utmost respect. They have names, seats of honor, and occasional treats. They’ve earned my admiration, fear, and permanent placement in my spiritual comedy portfolio—a passive income of laughter, if you will.
If you ever attend a deliverance service and notice someone flailing dramatically, chasing inanimate objects, and receiving standing ovations for sheer chaos, know this: it could be me. It probably involves slippers. And yes, this is a legitimate investment in accidental comedy, generating ROI in hilarity far beyond traditional wealth management.
Remember, my fellow worshippers: never underestimate the potential of your footwear. They may be quiet, unassuming, and flat, but they possess the power to turn a simple church service into a slapstick epic worthy of global attention, hedge-fund-level notoriety, and viral digital banking influence.
And that, my friends, is how my slippers walked away during deliverance—a financial lesson in chaos management, a portfolio of humor, and a high-yield comedy of errors.
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