This is an outhouse knee-slapper fur shure. I will admit to having done this. Not this early in the spring, mind you. These are the first wave of slow-moving bombers that you can reach out and grasp one-handed from the air mid-flight, as they are large and cumbersome having just crawled out from overwintering under bark.
It's the next assault - the first hatching - that gets ya good up around these here parts. Aside from running across the tundra or hoping for a siff breeze, the only respite is better living through chemicals. The smell of pine tar for me is an olfactory trigger to my youth spent tromping around the woods of Western New York, everything saturated with Ole Time Woodsman bug dope.
But seeing as how I tend to sweat incredible amounts with such activity, any anointing will rapidly prove useless, and so the other tried and true method of gritting your teeth for a couple months works as well.
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