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Dear Wendy's, I'm really glad that you have a new W burger. I don't eat your burgers, but I hear they're great, and I think you're doing your burger-eaters a great service. Me? I eat #6s. I've been eating #6s for a long time. You know why? It's the best sandwich you have. I've tried others. BIG mistake. The #6 is the #6 and the #6 is the best. It's like the 6th man in basketball: A burst of refreshing, invigorating power. A game changer. A memory maker. But now it's not the #6, it's the #7. This is rotten. Do you know what it's like to bond with strangers over simple pleasures? Like at my company's holiday party when I mentioned to a coworker that I "could really go for a #6," and he replied "gosh I know what you mean." Or when it's late, and you're exhausted and starving and you stumble into a Wendy's and know that you only need to remember three things: "Please," "#6," and "Thank you." Or how you know someone is your kind of person when they know the #6 too? That's big, Wendy's. The #6 means a lot to me, my peers, my generation of Wendy's eaters. And here you've gone and taken it all away. A rose by any other name may still smell as sweet, but a #6 by any other name is total garbage. Please fix your menu and send the spicy chicken sandwich back to where it belongs. Thank you for your attention.