The painter and his girlfriend were at the beach.
“I love you,” the painter said, holding a paint brush in his hand, pressing it upon the canvas.
“Why?” the girl asked with a sly smile. The radiance of the sunset swept on her blushed cheek.
“Your breasts. They give me comfort. When I lay on them, they feel like this paint,” his finger dipped into the paint on the palette, gently rubbing the smear. “Soft… Wet… And… So gentle.”
The girl giggled, “Why don’t you marry my breasts then?”
A week later, a wedding was held.
Before the minister were the painter and his painting: