“Yeah, Alice. You’re gonna get a honeymoon! Bang! Zoom! Straight to Da Moon!"

Ralph Kramden, the beloved, but beleaguered bus driver and his long-suffering wife Alice of “The Honeymooners” fame were on anything but a honeymoon. In fact, honeymoons can turn out all wrong, as evidenced by the following true story. If you have never been to an all-inclusive resort or if you have never served time in “big boy” prison you might not be able to relate to the following story, but if you have ever had a root canal with no Novocain, or if you have been butted in the stomach by a Billy goat, you might be able to understand some of what we experienced.

Even 20 years ago I knew my bride-to-be was a planner and I wanted to take her on a honeymoon trip that would relieve her of that burden. I wanted to go to an all-inclusive resort where all the decisions would be made for us. For that reason, as well as others, we made the fateful decision to go to Jamaica.

This trip was fouled up from the start. Two weeks before our scheduled departure the resort informed us that they were overbooked and that our reservation had been transferred to a sister facility, “Eden II.” Not knowing much (see mealy-mouthed confession below) about Jamaica, we meekly accepted the decision.

At the airport, the limousine promised to us in the brochure turned out to be an ancient school bus. Already sitting in the old Blue Bird were a few grimy tourists and several dozen Jamaicans — all smoking pot. On top of the bus appeared to be the worldly possessions of an entire village as well as several cages filled with chickens. Most of those on the inside of the bus had some sort of livestock with them and at least one was accompanied by a small calf. Not a single square inch of the bus’s sheet metal was undented.

As decrepit as the bus was, it was capable of traveling at break neck speeds. We careened along narrow pathways in our un-air conditioned misery, dodging goats, pigs and children. Chickens and dogs barely missed being crushed by our tires and rarely did our driver’s foot come near the brake pedal.

At this point, it might be useful to tell that I suffer from motion sickness. I can neither sit in nor watch the movements of a porch swing or a rocking chair. I am a poor passenger in the most comfortable luxury car and sitting on this “leaping Lena” was sheer torture.

So, when half-way through the trip, our driver decided to stop for a drink, I jumped at the chance to “de-bus.” Frankly, I just wanted to stop long enough to kill myself on terra firma, but decided a Coke might be a less radical approach to my miserable state. Obviously, I misunderstood. A “drink” to our driver did not mean a Coca-Cola. A drink meant a liquor drink: rum chased with Red Stripe beer. Somehow, I was the only passenger who didn’t think this was a good idea. With one last toke and a mighty belch, our driver assumed his position in the cockpit and proceeded to our final destination.

Frankly, the remainder of the trip remains somewhat of a blur to me. I think I might have passed out from terror or from dehydration. Maybe I was just high on second-hand smoke.

To make matters worse, I do find it necessary to make a slight confession (see “mealy-mouthed” above). The truth is I had been to Jamaica several years before and stayed at the Hilton with my first wife. My new bride knew about the situation and asked that we just not stay in the same resort. Knowing we were staying at “Eden II” calmed my fears.

Needless to say, I was wrong again. The Jamaica Hilton’s latest incarnation was — you got it — Eden II! I recognized it as soon as we pulled into the driveway. Foolishly, I confessed the truth to Elise, and had it not been for an unfortunate incident later in the evening, I might have been made to suffer for my mistake. As it turned out, the suffering was not inflicted on me by my disappointed bride, but by what was passed off to us as jerk chicken.

For at a lovely beachside reception with the torches blazing and a cool breeze blowing off the Caribbean, we ate something that night that changed our lives forever. Whatever we consumed — canine, feline or rodent — made Montezuma and his so-called revenge seem as mild as a Disney movie.

My wife was the first to succumb. I turned around and she was gone. In just a moment, scores of people had left the tables and in an act of sheer desperation, I joined them in an ever lengthening line that snaked around the pool to the public bathroom.

For us, the captives, that meal and the several that followed set the tone for a miserable week. The bug that invaded the bowels of the inmates of Eden II never subsided. And, in spite of the fact that we opted for a more expensive ocean-front room, the only way we could have benefited from that upgrade was if there had been a window next to the toilet. Since the public facilities downstairs were at a premium, we were afraid to stray too far from our own room. My recollection is that while our room was on the 11th floor, and we had to make friends with another newly-wed couple on the 7th floor, just so we could have a place to jump off the elevator in case of an emergency.