No, they don't appreciate it at all. When I was a boy of ten, I caved in a nest of them by walking on it, and was immediately engulfed. I took off running to a creek bottom which was about an eighth mile away, slowed down right when I got to it, and received the last of my 29 stings slam in the middle of my forehead. I stayed in that cold spring fed hole for a while ( a good long time, till I was sure they weren't after me any longer) and went to the house, where my grandparents rubbed me down with wintergreen alcohol and put bits of chewing tobacco on each sting. I remember it like it was yesterday, and it happened in the summer of 1963.