Flashback… 25 years ago. I’m working in the kitchen at a McDonald’s restaurant in St. John’s, Newfoundland. It’s busy. REALLY busy. I’m scrambling around the kitchen, obeying the orders of the manager running the production bin. His name is Dick Tracy. (I’ve changed his last name because it’s not important to the story.) I’d always enjoyed when it was busy, so things were going good and I was in good spirits.

Dick: Hey Steve, I need 6 McChicken down. (Meaning putting chicken patties in the deep fryer.)
Me: Right on dude!

Then Dick stopped what he was doing. He marched right across the kitchen and started wagging his finger in my face.

Dick: Don’t you EVER call me “dude” again!
Me: Uh…. why?
Dick: Because where I come from it’s an insult!
Me: And “Dick” isn’t?

I worked at McDonald’s for five years after that. He never spoke another word to me again. Ever.

Incidentally, the definition of “dude”:

[dood, dyood]
–noun
1. a man excessively concerned with his clothes, grooming, and manners.
2. Slang. fellow; chap.
3. a person reared in a large city.
4. Western U.S. an urban Easterner who vacations on a ranch.

I don’t know. Maybe he was reared in his large city by some chap obsessed with his grooming while on vacation on a ranch out west.