BB
Benjamin Bauldree
Jul 7, 2026
Dear Sonic (alias: Darla, the betrayer of my heart),
I am writing you this letter because my love for you has turned sourer than a green lemon. You used to be the shine in my shoes, but after what happened at your Highway 72 location, you are nothing but a flat tire in the driveway of my soul.
The He-Man Woman Haters Club trusted you. We pooled together all our hard-earned pennies and nickels just to get a taste of your sweet, icy affection. But you treated our love like garbage.
First of all, you made us wait an absolute eternity. We sat there in the sweltering heat while Spanky checked his pocket watch a hundred times. Buckwheat literally grew a whole inch taller just waiting for you to notice us. We could have built a complete soapbox derby racer from scratch in the time it took you to bring out our order—and when you finally did, you brought the wrong thing entirely! You gave our affection to someone else's order!
But the absolute worst part—the thing that broke Alfalfa’s heart into a million tiny pieces—was your total lack of Nerds.
We paid extra for that sweet, crunchy companionship, Darla! And what did you give us? Just cold, empty, melting slush. A slushie without Nerds is like a sandbox with no sand, or a secret clubhouse with no password. It’s empty. It's nothing.
You have broken our trust, and you have ruined our afternoon. Consider this our official notice: you are completely banned from the clubhouse. We are throwing your picture in the old tire swing, and we are never looking back.
With deep, icy resentment,
Alfalfa
(On behalf of the He-Man Woman Haters Club)
P.S. Buckwheat says, "O-tay, it's over!"