Personally, I'm a bit tired
of all this
self-congratulatory drivel. Still, if you're wondering what
this is all about I will hazard a guess : Every year, thousands of college kids head North for the tree-planting season and, as stereotypes go, it has become something of a Canadian rite of passage. Generally, the blocks of land you plant on have been cleared in one of two way. Acid-crazed locals, driving massive Frank Miller inspired monstrosities, will flatten everything in sight or they will clear 20' paths creating massive piles of dead forest on either side. The latter are called wind rows and they suck, in part because they only have "openings" every couple of hundred feet making it ripe territory for playing head-games with yourself. Anyway, the story
I was told was that on the last day of the previous season a foreman was walking through a block of wind rows checking trees when he passed an opening and saw flagging tape being pulled along the ground. He poked his head into the next row and saw that the tape stretched as far as he could see. The foreman followed the tape -- lots of it, all different colours -- for a couple of rows before he found himself standing in front of a planter wearing nothing but his boots and his planting bags. And several rolls of flagging tape whose ends had been tied to his penis. see also :
Andrew Cohen : OK, Canada, let's bury U.S. obsession.
Gisle Aas : Data::DumpXML.pm
mmmm... arbitrary data structures.
CBC : Why can't we tickle ourselves?
"Researchers at University College London found that the cerebellum detects self-inflicted touch ahead of time and tells the rest of the brain to ignore the resulting sensation, spoiling the fun of self-tickling."
Peter Merholz : What I Know About Poontang
Sightings :
The Main Archeological Project :
1 &
2 &
3.
