Don’t call me dude!
Tonight, Milla and her roommate Brian and I went for burgers and sweet potato fries and Belgian beers at the Father’s Office. When we came out of the restaurant, there was a guy leaning against my car (which happened to be parked right in front of the establishment) smoking with his friends. I made an off-hand comment about how much I loved that my car was being used as the resting spot for someone else’s rear-end. The offender look over at me and said something like:
“oh, is this your car, dude?”
To which I replied:
“I’m not a dude, dude!”
And can I just say — I HATE IT when people call me DUDE! I’m not a dude — I lack the appropriate anatomy to be a dude, I’m not a dude!
There’s a guy at work who does it, too, and when I correct him all he says to rectify the situation is the call me “dudette.”
Jeez, I hate it, why do guys DO that?!