No matter how much glitter or how many faux gems you affiix, they're still fucking flip-flops. Best at the beach, not so much during Mass.
The "slap-slap" noise they make as they flap against your meaty, callus-ridden, cracked heels is obnoxious. Plus, flapping them against your heels to make the noise deliberately when you're bored is douchebaggery.
I can see your yellowed, raggedy, jagged, dirt-encrusted toe claws protruding over the leading edges of the flip-flops. You could have planted bulbs in the detritus around your big toenails.
The corns on your feet are the size of Mount Rainier, only somewhat less photogenic.
Your feet overflowed the bottom sole of the flip-flops; I've never seen foot-based muffin-top before.
Finally: yes, everyone including the Priest noticed you picking at said calluses, corns and orc-claws during the homily. This is why no one would shake your hand during the Sign of Peace.
On the upside, I am now so grossed out that sticking to my diet today will be a damn breeze.