“Señor Flores, I was just coming over to visit you and find out how you’re doing. I haven’t seen you in a long time,” I said.
I was in San Ignacio when I passed Mr. Flores leading a donkey down the road.
“Oh Mr. Dennis, things ain’t been too good,” he said. “I don’t have no work for eight months and I been broke. I’m take my donkey to the market to make money.”
At the market Mr. Flores set up a little hand painted sign that said, “Betting $10 this donkey ansah any question about numbers.”
A man walked up and read the sign. “No way this donkey know how much numbers in a phone number.”
Mr. Flores said, “Tell him, ass.”
The donkey clomped his hoof seven times on the ground. The man paid his ten dollars and walked away scratching his head.
Another man came up and said, “Ass don’t know how much football players on a side.”
The donkey stamped his hoof eleven times and the man paid up. By this time a good sized crowd had gathered around Mr. Flores and his donkey.
A Creole lady, almost as round as she was tall, stepped up and said, “Dis donkey one fraud. I prove it, too.”
“How so?” Mr. Flores said.
“Ah bet you one hundred dollars dis donkey cyan tell me meh age.”
“O.K.” Mr. Flores said. “Donkey, you tell she.”
As donkeys often do, the donkey suddenly passed gas. He passed it long and he passed it loudly, as donkeys do. Then he stomped the ground two times.
“Oh, mi Gawd! Oh, mi Gawd!” the lady said, loudly and sank to the ground. “Ah don believe dis.”
“Gladys, what wrong wit chu?” asked a lady who was helping her to her feet.
Gladys said, “How de donkey know I farty two?”
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