Transcript from the Sunday Family BBQ (parental warning: tits)

This Sunday I was interrupted in my writing by my mother, who asked whether I wanted to join her and my sister for a bbq. Then she said she had to call again, because my sister wasn’t sure. She called five minutes later, confirming that my sister was not, in fact, totally sure.
I continued writing despite the horrible tidings, and an hour later she informed that they were on their way. I had still not affirmed or denied anything. But they showed up, ready to go for the islands, and my writing wasn’t doing too good after all the hassle.

I have never been to Langøyene before. It’s because it’s an island (or actually two, connected by a pile of garbage, but that’s another story), and where I come from, islands are surrounded by water. My mother knew what to do, and not forty minutes after my departure we were standing in line waiting for the ferries. A LOT of people were waiting with us.

We weren’t going to the island with rabbits (#659), but I was cool with that. I was getting hungry, and I wouldn’t like to destroy some kid’s vacation, catching me in the hunt, with rabbit blood running down my cheeks, guts around my hands and a crazy stare..
After a fifteen minute boatride, we were there. It was really nice. We went all the way out to the coast, past the beach, and found a nice spot looking at the sea.
I soon discovered that the girls just on the other side of the rocks had no problem whatsoever getting some sun on their tits. Which was fine by me. I started bbq’ing while my mother and my sister went for a short swim in the sea.
When I wasn’t looking at the grill, I looked after the tits. No, girls, I’m polite, I don’t stare. But you cannot not look either. It went something like this:
About time to put the lambchops on now.
Yeah, I think so.
Tits, tits, tits. Oh, those were big! Bet they jump.
Turning the lambchops. All that marinade. Gotta move ’em around a bit.
Tits, tits, tits, tits, hh, look at her! I could cup my hands around those. And the brown haired one. She could’ve been French. I bet she’s a smart dresser. She looks pretty flexible. Beautiful eyes. Kinda shy. Nice tits. She’s hot. Wow, it’s getting real hot here.
SHIT I’M ON FIRE!
Fucking marinade!
Well, I guess I can just turn them around and move ’em over here. Put the rest of the lambchops on. Do I have some water here, in case things start burning? Oh, tits.

And it was plenty of them. Could’ve been ten girls sunbathing, playing around there. Tits, tits, tits, tits, BIG TITS, tits, tits, PERKY ONES, tits, tits, it’s too much, no, tits, tits, TOO MUCH TITS, I can’t help myself, tits, tits, tits, TITS OVERKILL!!!!!
Tits everywhere. Tit inflation. Tits down by three points.

After a while my "mind" was over-stressed. Too much tits. I was all cool now, barely noticing all the tits. Hmm? Oh, tits. That’s alright. Look, there’s another one. Right there. How peculiar. Shit, those seagulls were nasty. As if you’d never seen anything else than tits your entire life. I guess it was some sort of natural instinct for self-preservation. Cannot function. Need more blood to the head. Focus on the food.

Soon we ate, and it tasted jolly good. For some reason my mother always buy a spare-rib for me. She keeps insisting that I love it. I don’t mind it, but that’s not quite the same. I like lambchops.

The last boats home Sundays leave at 7pm. If you don’t get on them, that’s it. You’re left to wander the island among the freaks that live there all year, hacked to death by sea birds and wandering children. I had a last, long look at the tits before we went. Goodbye, my fair sirens! Cover your tits for the night! Forget me not!
… It was emotional.
They had set up double boats to go, so no one would be left behind. And that was it essentially. I’m getting the telephone number of my mother’s dentist, so I can have nice, perly teeth the next time I go out there. And who knows? Maybe they’ll still be there, my preciouses, and maybe – just maybe I’ll stay behind. Like The Beach.