Jackson G. Tickle Enterprises Presents…Panama’s Propositions

You know how most people lead into stories or articles with some kind of dramatic introduction?

You do?

Yeah, me too. In fact, I usually do that myself. However, today I’m just going to ask the question.

Why in the hell do white people have no concept of personal space whatsoever?

I know I can’t be the only person who’s noticed this phenomenon. I used to think it was solely limited to nightclubs but apparently it’s just encoded in the DNA of white people to disregard all unwritten laws of space.

Case in point: Today, I ventured to my friendly neighborhood sandwich shop to partake of some of my favorite low priced vittles (I like the word vittles too). Three young Abercrombie-ish blonde chicks were right behind me annoying me as any group of young white girls is prone to do. Just like usual, I like, heard the word, like, like, too many times. Like, for real, I like, hate that shit.

Like.

Well, as I’m standing in line minding my own business, one of them is doing a steady slow take-over move. She might think she was sly, but my Negrosense had already taken over. What’s the Negrosense you ask?

It’s the sense that lets all Negroes know when white people are about to do something that might compromise your freedom.

Negrosense: Don’t leave home without it.

So as Blondey is slowly moving forward behind me, to the point where she’s brushing my arm with her purse, I kind of do the middle-of-the-line standstill manuever, which states that I’m in sole ownership of this slot. Stay your blonde ass back, beyotch.

Well, she must have caught me slipping or something because next think I know, one of the three is standing RIGHT next to me in line. Mind you, this isn’t the line to get on a roller coaster where you need two people. Also, we weren’t playing mixed doubles (kind of a double meaning term there, don’t ya know?) so there’s no need for us to be standing side by side as Ebony and Ivory sans Richard Pryor and Richard Gere.

I found my Blackness welling up in me as I was about to ask, what in Sam Hill are you doing? Why the fuck are you so close to me.

But I regained my composure and gave her the quick evil Black man glare. You know the glare…the one that works when you’re driving and somebody is unnecessarily tailgating. You give ‘em the glare and they slow way up behind you.

Anyway…for a good 5 minutes the Blonde Ambition Tour behind was in their place. As soon as the chick behind the counter goes to making my sandwich, here goes one of my transgressors AGAIN all on my back. After the 4th time of her hitting me with her purse, she says “sorry” and I just looked in to her soul.

I think I saw Sarah Silverman in there. Not sure, it was either her or the Band Camp girl.

Needless to say, I hate those chicks who were behind me. And its just like at a club. White people already can’t dance. If you throw a lack of personal space respectism in there, then you have the recipe for cuffed up Tims and pissedofftivity. They bump into you all willy nilly with little regard for the 6 feet of actual free space surrounding them.

I swear I went to the bathroom once where it was just me and one other white guy and he bumped me from across the room forcing me to spray the wall with God’s natural golden waterfall.

Okay, that didn’t really happen, but it could have because white people have no concept of personal space.

Damn close talkers.

You get to close to Black folks and we’re ready to fight. White people just try to become one with you at all times minus the Diplo shot and faulty Lifestyle condoms.

Speaking of which, did you hear about the fake Trojan Magnum condoms being sold in NYC? Way to stick it-pun intended-to Black people. When was the last time you heard of a white guy buying Magnums? First they take out the Black Panthers and now this.

Actually, first the Fat Boys breakup. No, wait…it was the Panthers first. Then the P. Stones.

Oh hell, you get the point.

Just thought I’d share since I know that every Black person who knows white people who knows Black people (you) who knows white people (them) has had to deal with this at some point. My suggestion?

Stab them.

Thank you and good night.

That title up there was a one-day title of the album I’ve been infrequently working on for the past two years. For one whole day I thought it was a good idea. I got over that really quickly.

Why am I sharing this? Because sharing is caring.

The more you know. *ding*

So I think I’ve officially decided to start blogging again. You may be asking yourself, “Self, why would Panama decide to start blogging again?”

Now, that would be a strange question to ask yourself considering that you’d probably have no idea why Panama would indeed decide to start blogging again, further, why in tarnation would you even think that you’d think you’d know why Panama would decide to start blogging again?

I mean really people, there’s only room for one narcissistic sexxy bastard in everybody rear view and it ain’t Kanye.

Speaking of Kanye, have you heard his new single, “Can’t Tell Me Nothing”? That one song has me completely anticipating his album. I can’t wait to hear what else he’s got cooked up. It’s so far left field from what he normally does. Sure he isn’t breaking any new ground lyrically, but I’ll be damned if it just ain’t a hell of a way to say, “I’m Kanye and I can do most shit better than the rest of you fucks out there.”

Kanye just might be my role model. Between him and Usher, its no wonder I have an inflated sense of self. Not to say that it isn’t a completely warranted and deserved inflated sense of self, I’m just saying that I’m humble and I do what nobody else can do.

That last sentence was sponsored by Kanye West and Usher Raymond. You have to love anybody who says things like that out loud and actually believes it despite the sheer ridiculousness of those statements.

*cough*iamhov*cough*

And further speaking of Jay-Z, it pains me to say this, but he REALLY should have just saved that horseshit verse he threw on Rihanna’s song, “Umbrella”. I love that damn song but man does his verse suck. He adds nothing to the song and doesn’t even ride the beat well with that damn “in anticipation for precipitation…” rehashed line.

For the first time in history, I wish Jay wouldn’t have jumped on a song. Can we please have a moment of silence, Jerry Falwell killed hip-hop.

So…after all that randomness, the reason I decided to come back to blogging is twofold.

1) We The Voices has returned and I realize that after you’ve taken a break from writing, it’s very easy to never want to write shit again. I need to get back into a continuous flow of writing. Since We The Voices was my baby, it serves me only write that I should probably be the most prolific writer on there, however, as of yet, I haven’t felt like writing shit. So I need to get back in the saddle and ride that puppy reckless.

After re-reading that last sentence, I’d like to apologize to PETA. And yes, that was a ‘spicious sentence. I’m currently wearing a pink shirt.

Besides, part of the audience from We The Voices came directly from my own blog site. Makes no sense to re-launch something with no actual audience or platform for an audience. Back in the saddle, bitches.

Plus, there needs to be some reason for me to actually wear my, “Tell a friend to google Panama Jackson” t-shirt.

By the way, why are there dandelions in the parking garage?

2) There is just way to much stupid shit going on in the world right now for me not to comment on it. I mean seriously. Despite the fact that about 4 people might read this, you simply must head over to this story:

Dumb Niggas Shoot Eachother Because That’s What Dumb Niggas Do

Okay, that’s not the real title but it should have been. And if I was the Editor-In-Chief of a magazine or a Black-run media outlet I’d have let that shit slide.

Oh…wait.

Dammit.

Anyway, these two niggas had one of their friends (oh, and despite the fact that I’ve asked msyelf to curb my use of the word “nigga” in writing, somehow it just seems quite appropos here), shoot them in the legs so that they could avoid being hazed by the frat that they had been accepted to pledge.

Hmm…correct me if I’m wrong here, but when you signed up for the shit, you knew what you were doing bucko. Man up, bitches. As was pointed out by the officers in the story, there were SO many other means they could have come up with if it was THAT bad that they wanted to avoid the hazing. And um, to the campus spokesperson who says that hazing doesn’t exist anymore…

…I pooh-pooh on your assetion.

I’m compelled to ask a question in resonse to this, “who fuckin’ does that??”

Oh right, I already answered this, “dumb niggas”. Hmmm, think about this too…wouldn’t you be a little bit suspicious of your friend who ACTUALLY pulled the trigger…on both of you? I’ll just give him a flier on this and say that he just wasn’t thinking of the potential of murder part of the attempted-assisted-suicide murder that his pussy boys asked him to commit. Just gives me pause that some cat would be okay with it.

“Yo, Jerome, after you find my mirror, can you shoot me?”

“Yeah, no problem, give me like 2 minutes…I’ll be right there.”

Oh yeah, and the dumb niggas left the gun IN THE CAR that they drove to the hospital in.

Seriously though, if you ever ask me to shoot you to get out of something, I’m calling the police myself. You need Jesus. And the person who you get to actually go through with the shooting might help you find him. Accidentally.

Dumb niggas. They’re even dumber because not only can they NOT plege that frat anymore, they can’t release any rap albums because the streets teach us that shooting one’s self to get out of some shit is the most pussy form of self-defense. You get no street cred for those bullets. And as their parents, I’d disown them.

Anyway, stuff like that makes me want to blog again, so I shall.

I’m back bitches.

I can’t leave blogging alone the game needs me.

It was written.