Three60 is a sleep-destroyer tool made out of crumpled up and twisted paper. Perhaps the twisting is where it got its name from as, you see, twisting is an integral function of this horrible, horrible thing; it being required in its application as well, when you insert the Three60 into your sleeping victim’s nose or ear. The reflex response by the sensitive body part is a sensation straight from hell, and your victim should rapidly jump up from sleep and rub the afflicted organ vehemently as his whole homoeostasis is imbalanced and shall never be regained for the whole of that night – all thanks to you and your bloody Three60. This would generally make you an ass-hole, and for exactly this reason, it caught up in my boarding school.
I was at home for the weekend when Three60 was introduced into the school. Of course, because of its cruel nature, it caught up so fast that it was quite the sensation even in its induction period.
So much so that by the time I was back in school on Sunday, I was very immediately a victim of it.
It was my cousin Biggy who was guilty of this heinous crime. I was reading a novel on my lap as usual, resting my head on the desk. As it was my first time and it was so unexpected, the sensation was so intense that my body jumped completely and the book fell with a very loud sound. Because it was prep hour, and the classroom was so silent, this made everything so resounding, and the whole class snorted its way through the rest of prep, with Biggy barely containing his laughter.
I took it very badly. Not only did I chop Biggy’s head off, but I set off on a mission for revenge, and recruited the very formidable Nasman and The Bad Man as my allies.
The combined evil of my two allies meant that the revenge operation took a whole different turn altogether, and the Three60 we started making quickly turned out into something much more experimental and, frankly, disgusting. We knew Biggy opened his mouth wide and shut his eyes when he laughed, so we engaged him in a funny story and inserted it into his mouth. Shudder…
This little episode did not mean that I had finally overcome Three60. No! Things were just warming up. Very soon, everyone became such an active Three60 inflicter and, in turn, victim, that it became a normal part of nightlife. And the regular targets, such as I, developed quite a tolerance for it. So much so that to some, its application merely made them moan softly in sleep and turn over. Defence mechanisms began to sprout about, and very soon, people began to put avoidance of Three60 over other priorities like breathing, and began to sleep with blankets and pillows firmly over their heads.
As a creative bunch of students, we began to be inventive in improving our marquee product. Supplementary products began to be developed, and perhaps the best of those was the Three60 wallet. You see, its inventors, M&K, who had introduced Three60 itself, had identified a flaw in the product. Quite simply, consumers had different nose and ear sizes, and for all the Three60s you had to carry in one operation, you needed a portable storage equipment, and also a measure for gauging the Three60 to the nose or ear. This created not only convenience for the operator, but also ensured maximum sensation for the victim. M&K, revolutionaries as they were, trialled this themselves. Lots of pissed off students later, it proved a huge success.
New ways of applying Three60s began to be considered. Of the particularly memorable were the toothpaste or Vaseline system. This involved applying a generous amount of toothpaste on the victim’s hand, and then applying the 360. The result reached new levels of hilarity (and annoyance). A particularly funny episode was when my friend Shim laughed so hard on one operation night with me and Nasman he grew tired and went to sleep. The look of resignation and dismay on his face after he woke up and realised he had just furiously applied toothpaste on his nose was rather priceless.
But even funnier was the use of Vaseline. The thing with Vaseline is, the victims look so shiny and pissed off when they wake up it’s impossible not to laugh. And if they decide to sleep on, the heat alone ruins the night for them. We had considered all avenues of satisfying the customer!
Now, you know I am a humanitarian, and would never do anything to place my fellow students under any inconvenience. But perhaps it was I, along with Nasman, Elemeen, and Barde, who created the most lethal form of 360. Seriously, it was Tony Starks stuff. In fact, it was Tony Starks meets Bill Gates meets fucking Edison, meets Osama bin Laden!!
That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, we invented the Mechanical Three60. We delivered Three60 into the machine age. I can’t be sure who came up with the idea, but I think it was me. I do remember it was on a night in which we all lay hours past bed-time, discussing about how we could embark on the most monumental Three60 operation.
Elemeen and I had the necessary technology; the two of us had those electric toothbrushes we bought on the previous summer’s school excursion. We simply replaced the head of the toothbrushes with tenderly fitted Three60s and the results were phenomenal. We launched them in spectacular fashion as well, and our first victim was this kid in our room whose last words before he drifted to sleep was a plea accompanied by nervous laughter for us not to Three60 him.
He stood no chance.
The four of us loomed over his bed, Elemeen and I with our Mechanical Three60s, Barde and Nasman with the conventional ones, and simultaneously applied it to each of his nasal and and aural orifices. Now I will tell you, no living human being could take this amount of horrific torture, and I sure am glad I never had to experience it myself.
The poor kid bawled out crying, it was too much to take. He wept silently even after we had retreated to our positions, giggling and snorting rather loudly. See, that’s the thing with Three60. If it’s applied in the dark and the inflicter is well skilled in the art of retreat you could never know who did you, and would be understandably pissed at everyone present in equal measure. (A good example of revenge under these circumstances is the way I handled me and Nasman’s rather intense and somewhat dangerous Three60 feud, perhaps a story for another day).
Anyway, we were very cautious that night, and waited patiently for our victim to fall back to sleep before we made our next move. We decided we needed to take our new invention and system beyond our room and out to hostels beyond. We stole into the next room and applied it to my cousin Walter.
It had the same effect on the poor fella. See, the horror feeling of it all is enough to make your brain combust in one painfully ticklish instant. Walter’s loud bawl reverberated into the night, and because it woke others up, I chose it as the best time for retreat.
At this point, I urged my colleagues to do the same. We had our fun, we had invented possibly one of the world’s most terrible torture devices, we should be proud and satisfied. But they didn’t listen! It was like I underestimated the purity of their evil. I had created monsters!
Suffice to say we got in trouble, and the next day we were reported to school authorities and had a meeting with our class teacher, along with Supervisor and our House Master. Nasman and Elemeen were favourites of the first two, and were never really going to get punished, so they gave away all the info, perhaps in the hope that Barde and I would suffer serious ramifications. Remarkably, the “authorities” found the whole episode almost as funny as we did, and it was swept under the carpet.
Those were truly the heights of Three60 days. There were other great moments, but for me none quite lived up to the Mechanical Three60, my grand contribution to humanity.
Ah… I hate my life.
[And if you saw the title of this post, thinking it was about the XBox 360, you are truly a geek and should hate yours too.]
I’ve screwed up my right ankle so many times I’ve almost lost count. It was like once I managed to sprain it, I put the ankle-spraining cycle in motion, and I pretty much had to do it once every couple’a years.
The first time was when I was about ten years old and my cousin Walter jumped high in play and landed on it. It was pain like I had never felt before.
If you’ve seen his feet, you would too.
Where I’m from, if you sprain any part of your body, you’ve fucked yourself. You’d be taken to some old bloke, who’d jam it back into place, and then you’d be required to have someone rub the injury with towel soaked in steaming hot water. You’d then have vapour rub on it and it would heal in about three days. The message is pretty simple: Don’t-Sprain-Your-Ankle.
The first time I’ve had this treatment I didn’t cry or even scream, and this was perceived to be so impressive that the “sprain healer” showered praises on me to my aunt, who had held both my wrists firmly in anticipation of the worst. She then told everyone that I “took” a bone-jamming, and I was something of a hero.
Fast forward to when I was in boarding school. Back then, we had a bunch of hobbies. My favourite was play-fighting, which we called Judo; guided, taught and refereed by our hostel supervisor, who was our sensei of sorts.
On a daily basis we would square off in our room, and leave the arena open for two people at a time, who would either wrestle until someone tosses the other’s back on the ground (my WWE watching helped me here), or we would do our own version of Tae Kwando, where only kicks were allowed and points were won based on the number of kicks.
Now both sports were highly dangerous and could lead to fights (surprisingly, very few ever did – a post about the catalogue of the dangerous games we played at another time, eh?), but I loved them. Even when a couple of the senior students came into our room to take advantage of it to bully us, I’d volunteer and get my feet constantly swept aggressively off the ground. I knew I wasn’t the strongest or the most flexible with my feet, but I imagined myself a wily underdog. Kurt Angle, actually.
Now, around that time, my arch-nemesis was G Bobo. I didn’t -hate- G Bobo in as much as I loved making fun of him. He was just… kinda a massive dork, and made it very easy for you to poke a little fun at his expense. Now Supervisor saw this mental bullying as me hating on G Bobo, and well, a little drama was always good for hostel entertainment. He knew G bobo had very long legs and could hold his own in “Tae Kwondo”, so on a tournament day when everyone was packed to perform and watch, it was Drowsy versus G Bobo.
Now obviously, I was very nervous about this. Defeat could be every humiliating for me. So I was very careful and thought of all the tricks I knew. Now, G Bobo must have been even more nervous about facing me, because very soon, I found myself 3 points up to none.
Now at this point I must have gotten very cocky, or G Bobo – so close to defeat – must have had an epiphany, because he got me on a three hit combo with those long legs of his. I must admit, I could look back now and tell you they were very impressive; the first hit my legs and got me off balance, the second cleanly got me on my undefended under-arm, and the third thwacked me firmly on the head.
This got my blood boiling for a number of reasons;
1. It was very painful (especially the one on the head).
2. Everyone else was very impressed by the 3-hit Combo so G Bobo now had crowd support.
3. The confidence of that move plus the cheer of the crowd meant G bobo was now on the front foot and was most likely going on to win this.
4. I’d let myself down, badly, with my zero resistance.
Unable to keep calm under pressure, I kicked wildly at G Bobo in retaliation, van Damne style.
G Bobo sensed very quickly that he needed a defense mechanism. And boy, did the somma bitch improvise. He defended with his hard-as-concrete knee, and CRACK!! Damn! That shit hurt!
I knew I couldn’t carry on. The foot started swelling like crazy. Supervisor and the crowd saw that my ankle had acquired some damage, but it was good drama stuff, so they urged me to carry on, which I did. I was determined not to show weakness and back out. To G Bobo, it must be something like this at this point…
However, some diplomatic officiating by Supervisor saw the match finish 4-4. I immediately slumped on a bed and helplessly watched my foot swell up to the size of a loaf of bread.
Supervisor made me and G Bobo stand as he dramatically raised both of our hands as a sign that we were both impressive, and therefore victorious (again, very diplomatic by Supervisor). We didn’t seek treatment until all the matches were over. Even as I sweated painfully on the bed, I could see my friend, The Bad Man, laughing and poking at the foot, cherishing every moment of the pain in his badness.
Supervisor carried me on his back to the school nurse, who, from a distance, saw my bread-loaf foot from a distance and wagged her hands vehemently. She sentenced me to the bone-jamming system, and my heart sank.
Supervisor, being Turkish, was not aware of how we usually treated sprains, and he asked me if I wanted that treatment. I told him I wanted to go to the hospital.
I quite enjoyed the hospital treatment. I had a pain-killer injection, an X-Ray taken of my foot, and a bandage wrapped gently around my ankle by a quite pretty nurse. As a kind of gesture (brought about by his guilt, perhaps), Supervisor, who carried me everywhere on his back, decided to take me home for a couple of days. The story I was to give everyone was that I had suffered a football injury.
My home was quite close to my boarding school, and I loved the idea of spending a couple of days away. Everyone bought the football story and told me off for playing football without soccer-boots. My brother inadvertently helped with that; he found the story quite hilarious, and spiced it up a bit, telling everyone that I was going for a Beckham cross and laid the ball unto my right foot, ready to whip it in, when the defender knocked the ball away and I hit his knee instead.
Of course, I wasn’t complaining.
One thing I didn’t anticipate from my little retreat home was that in my house, the Bone Jamming Method was the spraining treatment of choice.
My family asked me whether my ankle was going to be alright and even though they weren’t totally convinced by my assertions, they let it play out. My X-Ray showed that I only had a sprain and the swelling was receding.
Noo, it was the workers that were the problem! Some of them almost seemed to have a personal flak against the hospital system. Too westernised, they said. They had a better method and the White Man and his system aren’t taking -this- away from them! One week is too long for an ankle to heal, noo! Not when it could be fixed violently straight away!
So they got me a bone-jammer. They didn’t even get me a good one! They got me this giant person who made his living as a labourer and electrician.
I’m serious! My foot looked like a biscuit in his hands! When he started I was determined not to yell. I was going to uphold my reputation of manliness! (Also, I had showed off to everyone that I did not scream the first time, and so my sister came to watch, specifically to confirm that I was, indeed, a yeller).
I had not factored a few things when my decision for not yelling was made;
1. This fella was significantly bigger and rougher than the gentle old man who fixed my foot the first time.
2. My ankle had already gone three days with a sprain – the first time, it was fixed on the day of the injury when it was still fresh.
3. Being about 3 years younger the first time, I would believe my bones were much more flexible and thus the pain would be easier to take.
So it was only a couple of seconds before…
He might as well have snapped the foot away and had it for dinner. It hurt.
Everyone laughed, and I trembled severely as I went back in to watch some TV and put this whole experience behind me.
Of course, after a couple of years I DID screw up my ankle again. I was playing football, and hit my best friend on the knee because he had dispossessed me and I was too eager to get the ball back.
I hate my life.
I don’t even know why my parents decided to get me a bike. It wasn’t anything I did – my parents don’t subscribe to this performance-based reward/punishment scheme. I get stuff in three ways: my parents go on a trip, I ask for something and they give me the money, or I beg. However, that day, my mother inexplicably got me and my brother in the car and we went to the bike place. I didn’t even know what was going on; I honestly thought we were getting the bike for someone else. I was made to wait in the car while my brother, who was visibly more excited than I was, went with my mother to get the bike. When they came back, I noticed my brother riding on the new blue and black bike, and that not only got me excited finally in anticipation, but also made me kinda mad that if that was MY bike, my brother was riding it first. So I gave him a death stare.
Obviously, my brother told me he picked the bike for me, and I got very excited. I couldn’t wait to ride it at home! I’d do stunts and speed fast and do cool stuff!
[NOTE: As a kid, I had this idea that I would be naturally exceptional at all wheel stuff… bikes, roller-skates, skateboards, so I always imagine myself doing this…
… but end up looking like this…
So when I got home, my eldest brother held the bike up for me to sit on confidently and he gave me a push. I lived my little fantasy for about five full seconds before I crashed sideways into a plant.
It wasn’t the first time, and it wasn’t the lowest point of me riding a bike. That was when my cousin, who -I- taught how to ride, beat me in a race, in a veeery waterlogged and dangerous road in front of his house, to cheering supporters. Hmm… that was definitely the lowest.
There were highs as well! I remember pretending to be one of the Famous Five, or the Five Find-Outers, riding around “snooping” for mysteries and adventures. I made mad theories about people I see on the street and even stalk sometimes. Occasionally, I was also the Blue Ranger. Oh yeah!
I guess I was feeling particularly bad ass the day that it all went wrong for me.
That was because I was just back from school and everyone else was praying at the mosque, and I was biking around showing off without a care in the world.
This episode was a couple of years after I got the bike. And my brother, who I went with to get it, had a friend over and they were passing by to his room, totally ignoring me. Now I wasn’t going to allow that. I shall not be ignored! I had to get attention! I HAD TO GET ATTENTION, DAMMIT!!
And so I sped.
And then sensed something was wrong.
See, the initial idea was to make as if I was going to hit the concrete fence that surrounded our barnyard animals and their storage sheds, heighten their anxiety, AND then conduct an epic handbrake turn in the manner that we refer to as kotsiya!!! OOH YEAH!!
You could see a mile off how this not-so-full-proof plan could go wrong. And at this junction I am going to advise all of you readers to never try anything like this on a bike, should you feel an inexplicable need to show off.
It was the brakes.
As I reached to apply the right brakes, which was the good one, it swivelled 180 degrees to underneath the handle-bar to render it as useless as the left brakes – which were… pretty useless.
And I was left with my human instincts. At that particular moment, I knew if I hit the fence full force, I was going to topple overhead unto the barnyard with all those thorns and plants and some garbage and God knows what.
So I steered left as hard as I could without completely losing my balance, and was headed towards the gate to the barnyard. Man, that gate was some dangerous piece of shit, what with rotting spikes and all.
When I hit it and one of the spikes sank into my right cheek, I didn’t even feel it.
[Intended picture too gruesome to post]
How shocking must it have been to those praying in the mosque for a whizzing bleeding kid to run past them into the house. I can’t remember sensing clearly my mother lambasting me, my brother trying to explain what happened, my aunt immediately rushing to wash my face with the bottled water in her hand, and whoever it was that got me tissue for my face.
I couldn’t even remember clearly when I got into the car and went to the hospital. All I knew was that even though I felt like shit (mentally), I didn’t cry. You see, even though it is not hard to get me to cry, I usually cry over emotional hurts, not physical ones (even if they do accompany each other). And that injury was the fourth of the five prominent scars and wounds I have on my head. But more on that in forthcoming posts.
No, the closest I came to crying was the next day at school, which I dreaded going to since I saw the size of the bandage they put on my face. The first girl that saw my face laughed loudly and went and told everyone, and for the next hour, I sat with my face hidden by my arms.
I felt like this.
However, my teacher, Uncle Thomas, told me to chin up. He assured me that it was just an injury, and I could do nothing about it. He addressed my concerns, and promised me that no-one would laugh. He asked me to relax. And I did!
All of them. Hysterical. Even the teacher.