Many years ago in forestry school
we had to help to build a ropes course. For those not familiar, it's an obstacle course of sorts, involving a lot of steel cables. The one strung a foot above the ground was a tightrope walk, the one going from a platform at the top of a tree to a platform at the middle of another tree was a zip line that you slid down on a trolley, and so on. One of the obstacles was called the Pamper Pole, which consisted of a platform thirty feet above the ground about five feet from a trapeze that let you swing to another platform. The name was indicative of what sort of underwear you should have on, as it was a bowel-loosening experience.

So to construct the Pamper Pole they wanted to use as rot-proof wood as they could, which in this case was tamarack, a type of tree that only grows in swamps. They had plenty of trees to choose from, and had landed a forty foot log on the ground back in the marsh. The only hitch was that they couldn't get it out using machinery as the ground was too soft, so it had to be carried by hand a hundred yards through the woods to the road.

The tool used for this was called a Swedish hand logger, which consisted of a long wooden handle with two pivoting hooks in the middle. You set it on top of the log, kick the hooks into the wood, then two people lift. As there were two dozen of us in the class, it was feasible- but not easy.

All of us got set on the log, except for one guy standing to one side with the hand logger looking confused. Kathy, the teacher in charge (who bore a frightening resemblance to The Trunchbull in the movie "Matilda") looked around at us to figure out who was missing, then bellowed "POLLY!"

One of the few girls in our class stepped sheepishly from behind a tree. "But my back hurts."

"So does mine, but I'm here! Get over here and get on this log!"

"But it really hurts! I twisted it playing soccer yesterday!" she whined.

Kathy growled and set her hands on her logger, directly in front of me. We all bent and on the count of three lifted the log. Straining under the weight we staggered through the marsh, frequently hitting soft spots and going up to our knees in muck, but still carrying the log toward the road. Grunting and puffing we climbed the embankment, each of us carrying well over a hundred pounds of dead weight, and were shuffling it into position where the logging truck could get it when Polly came bouncing alongside us with a cigarette and asked, "Does anybody have a match?"

Never give me a line like that.

As soon as I answered Kathy exploded in laughter with the rest of the class, the log hit the ground with a crash and Polly chased me down the road chucking snowballs at me...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Nov 2011, 1:19, 5 replies)

Kathy growled and set her hands on her logger
Better than logging and setting her hands on her growler.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Fri 4 Nov 2011, 12:13, closed)

Frankly, that would not have surprised me either.

( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 4 Nov 2011, 12:23, closed)

Both of these responses made me do real life out loud lols :D

(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 7 Nov 2011, 13:21, closed)

RIS?
I honestly have no idea what this response to the 'match' line is.

Edit: (unless it's about the log being made into matchsticks...But how would that fall under tactlessness?)
(Zachariah Pardon, pardon. J'AI UNE POUSSETTE, Wed 9 Nov 2011, 17:58, closed)

The common response to "Got a match"?
is; "Yes, my arse and your face." It was tactless because it pissed her right off, and it made his buddies drop the log.
(Slyph, Thu 10 Nov 2011, 12:44, closed)