Ronnie Ray's Last Trip Ever

Ronnie Ray used folks' seat-backs to propel himself down the aisle of the aircraft toward its tail as his intestines were screaming threats to loose the effects of amoebic dysentery into his pants, caused by lettuce on street tacos he'd eaten in Tijuana, Mexico.

As if that wuddn't enough, there was flame-licked, steel-spiked lava coursing down the core of his penis in his urethra, a sure sign of gonorrhea he'd bought from a real cutie two days earlier, but whose symptoms had only hit Ronnie Ray 30 minutes ago in the mens' room while waiting to board the San Diego-Atlanta flight.


Thank ya JEEZZZUSSS the lavatory was unoccupied as Ronnie Ray thumbed-off his suspenders and his britches hit the floor in nothin' flat to the painfully, teeth-clenched and muted cries of his burning urethra discordant with echoed growls of his diarhhea into the stainless bowl of the cramped and now putridly odorific lavatory Hell-bent to redefine word 'pungent.'


His autonomic nervous system seeped tears into his eyes from the flame-throwing penis as his rectum continued to expel what felt like his internal organs being propelled by downstream logs 'n washed away homes in a flood.


In an unthinking moment of pain and self pity, worrying about what to do and when back home, Ronnie Ray pulled and lit a cigarette, eliciting a LOUD two-toned wail from smoke detector to which Ronnie Ray reacted by stuffing the freshly lit cigarette between his legs into the toilet but, missing in his panic, hit the side of his penis and he jumped up smackin' at the left side of his scrotum as the cherry ember made a nice hole producing a scream convincing enough to cause other passengers to brace themselves, wide-eyed and pale for the Second Coming.


After six hours handcuffed in front of Federal and state authorities at Atlanta Hartsfield's mini-jail, Ronnie Ray found himself walking to the curb for a cab clutching his suitcase and a $2,500 Federal citation, muttering, "God bless America and 'Messico' can kiss my big, fat..." but words were substituted with Ronnie Ray's brain flashing like cameras as he wheeled and burst back inside the terminal, desperate to find a restroom and swearin' he'd never leave the U. S. of A. again.

Ronnie Ray sat in the men's room stall sporting the pained facial expression of a man with V.D. and amoebic dysentery. Burns on his penis and scrotum from his poor effort to stuff the lavatory with the cigarette earning a $2500 fine still angered him but, hey, things was about to start lookin' up.


He sat in the terminal on his cell phone, calling Earleen, "YES, baby, I feel like hammered crap 'n they wouldn't let me board the flight with this flu and so I'm still in San Diego and gotta grab a cab and hotel and I'll call you later," and he abruptly hung up with a quickly groaned and coughed "Luv ya."


He rushed to the East Seaboard Airlines counter and got in line to buy a round-trip ticket to San Diego, and remembered that when he had previously booked his ticket, he had declined the airline's offer of a package of hotel and rental car that would be slicker than snot on a ice-skatin' rink to accept this time.


The ticketing process was effortless, paying $682 in cash and traveller's checks, signing the agreement that last-minute packages were nonchangeable, noncancellable, and non refundable beginning with the flight's departure in an hour-and-a-half for two days' of ample time to forge excuses for Earleen and his family and any butt-inski's to butt-out.


Sitting in his departure gate. he sighed relief just as the loud voice of a deplaned passenger yelled out, "Ronnie! Ronnie Ray, izzat YOU!??" the voice belonging to Earleen's brother from San Francisco, grinnin' and bellowin', "Boy howdy, this is Earleen on my phone tellin' me youse sick as all git-out and stuck in San Diego," as Ronnie Ray muttered, "Aww, damn, shit, hell!," wishing for a death ray to deliver him from all evil and in a hot minute for what must and would come next as the cell phone was extended toward his suddenly immovable hand.