In my family, I am the youngest of three boys. I’ve learned a lot from my older brothers. My oldest brother taught me the majority of what I know and love about the sport of basketball. His talents at the game were something I’d try to imitate. He was so skilled on the court that a local sportscaster named a move in his honor, “The Hannibal Hurricane.” My older brother also introduced me to movies like Chaddyshack and Vacation. Through these films I not only learned things from my him but from Clark Griswold and Carl Spackler as well.

O'Donnell

My middle brother schooled me in music. First, he introduced me to the world of hip hop. We used to play Mortal Kombat on Sega Genesis while the likes of Notorious B.I.G., Tupac and Onyx blared over his bedroom stereo. Later, he brought music to my attention that remain my favorites to this day. His musical influence makes it hard for me to ponder life without the joy of hearing Iggy Pop, The Velvet Underground and Tom Waits.

In their own ways my brothers greatly influenced the person I am today. In addition to teaching me about music, sports, and movies, they also schooled me in something else. It is because of these two men I understand the meaning of torture. Long before I had ever heard of Guantanamo Bay and waterboarding, I knew only “The Weasel Hold.”

This torturous maneuver involved the teamwork of my brothers. It was my oldest brother’s job to contort my body in a manner that insured I couldn’t break free. The key was to make sure my arms and legs were rendered immobile and my chest or feet were open to access from another party. That other party was my middle brother. While I was tied up, my middle brother moved in for the kill. He would tickle my feet, chest or even worse both.  My shrieks started with laughter but ultimately ended in tears and shouts for my mother’s rescue.

“The Weasel Hold” taught me about torture and also made me despise tickling. I even treat people who “poke” me on Facebook as a threat. A poke is too close to a tickle for me to feel comfortable with, even if it’s only computer generated.

Anyone who attempts to give me a light-hearted tickle is putting their life in jeopardy. Girlfriends in the past who’ve tried to give me a cute little tickle are met with a surprise. The expectation is the action is received as sweet horseplay, but I react like a convenience store clerk being held up at gun point. My hands fling to the air, and I am either hitting the ground or reacting in self defense.

My strong aversion to tickling cements that I will never visit a new spa that has opened in Madrid, Spain. This adventurous new vacation spot is named CosquilleArte, which translates to “tickle spa.” It would make no difference to me if the named translated to “nightmare hut.”

The spa treatment first consists of a therapist running fingers gently along the body. If the person survives past this, a feather is then brought into play as instrument to induce tickling. The spa charges $30 for a 30-minute treatment and $60 for the full hour. At least my brothers gave out “The Weasel Hold” for free.

In an MSNBC article covering CosquilleArte, a neuroscientist named Robert Provine describes tickling as “arousing not relaxing.” I agree with half of this statement. I consider tickling about as relaxing as I do a root canal. He continues by saying that when a person is tickled it raises the blood pressure and heart rate. The MSNBC article attempts to rationalize why people would flock to this spa. It concludes that people are seeking contact and communication with another human.

The treatment administered from a tickle spa would not cure any longing I would have for human communication or contact, it would only result in bad things coming my way. I could see myself being driven into a crazed state from the tickle therapy. Consumed by a blind urge to protect myself, I would assault my therapist. I’ve never claimed to be skilled or trained in self-defense, which is why my methods involve reckless hand slaps and piercing screeches that sound like a disgruntled opossum.

Though strange and relatively harmless, my actions would surely result in me spending a period of time in a Spanish prison. Any human contact or communication that would occur in a foreign jail probably wouldn’t be the most pleasant. I’d imagine the inmates have their own versions of “The Weasel Hold” that I’d rather not become acquainted with.

I believe it is within everyone’s best interest that I keep a safe distance from CosquilleArte. Some may get a sense of comfort and emotional release from tickling, but I am too scared from my past experience of being locked in “The Weasel Hold.” In everyday life, I will continue my avoidance of being tickled. Now, all I have to do is figure out a way to block people from “poking” me on Facebook. Thanks, Mark Zuckerburg.

Jordan O’Donnell