Gentle Ben

So July was smashed by my wife, that non-existant fairy who bothers me.
Together, flimmed, we watched the tide coming in. A whale was caught in the stiff sea-breeze and got carried away into the clouds. My wife thought this was amazing but I know about gravity and the locks of God.
The next day, as the evening came, we went for a walk in a tiny seaside village on the southern coast of France. We came by a restaurant with delicate tables and chairs out the front. We sat there and ate baked beans on toast. My fairy wife spewed all over me and we burst into laughter. The locals did not know what to make of us.
July caused lots of nausea in fact. I was sick a few days earlier, after eating a living dog by mistake. It had sprung lithely into my omelette when I wasn't looking and I put the whole thing in my mouth and swalled. The little dog wriggled around in my stomach as the acids consumed it. I was sick three times and on the third time the matted remains of the pooch flopped out. A passer-by remarked how cool I was about it as I carried on with my meal and conversation after the incident. I thanked him and said goodnight.
Goodnight.
Bon soir.