Doughboy Rises
To Feds' Threat
I squealed out of the grocery-store parking lot in a cloud of blue exhaust and a stench of burning rubber without thought or hesitation at the sudden, unexpected shout from the passenger seat.
Always check your surroundings, they say. Always have your key ready. Always glance inside before you get in. And always, I had followed the rules. But it was just so hot today ... so hot.
Wondering whether my life would end in a hail of bullets or at the point of a knife -- or with a fatal spasm of my own thundering heart -- I finally glanced over to see just who was so desperate to 'jack a road-weary, '94 Chevy with a cracked windshield and 107,000 miles on the odometer.
"Look, the car's yours, okay? Just don't kill me, I'm on deadline," I began, then realized I was pleading for my life ...
... With the Pillsbury Doughboy.
"No, no, no, it's fine," he piped nervously. "Well, not fine, I guess, and I apologize, but I just HAD to get away."
"Get away? From who?"
"Hoo-hoo!" he chuckled. "That's the problem. I don't really know." He proffered the Sunday business page.
"DOUGHBOY'S FATE ON THE HOOK," the headline screamed, and the CNN story underneath told of Federal Trade Commission scrutiny of General Mills Inc.'s $10.5 billion buyout of Pillsbury last year, making it the world's fifth-largest food maker.
General Mills later sold Pillsbury's desserts and specialty products business and Robin Hood flour brand to International Multifoods, hoping to ease the regulatory pressure.
Both companies planned to use the Doughboy to advertise their products. International Multifoods would use the jolly, blue-eyed icon to market Pillsbury cakes and cookies, while General Mills would use him to advertise refrigerated cookie dough and sweet rolls.
"Yeah, so?" I asked the Doughboy.
"Keep reading," he said, jabbing a stubby finger at the next paragraph.
The FTC, it seems, fears if both companies use the Doughboy, customers would still associate him with Pillsbury, hindering competition -- hence, one proposal to order General Mills to drop the Doughboy altogether.
"See?" the Doughboy said, kneading his chef's hat in agitation. "I can double my workload, flacking for both Pillsbury AND General Mills, twice the work and still no pay -- there's no Doughboys' Union, you know -- and that's if I'm LUCKY!"
He turned and glanced nervously out the back window.
"Otherwise, the Feds step in, and ..." he slashed a finger across his throat "... I'm toast. Or maybe a croissant. Or a popover. Or ... or ... Ohh, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!" he sobbed.
"Why can't they just stick with Microsoft? Or Chinese spies? Why me? What have I ever done to them? I swear, sometimes, I just want to stick my head in the oven and be done with it!"
After a moment, he took a deep breath and stared pensively out the window.
"Look," he said, "Just drop me off there at Krispy Kreme. The feds can't cover all of 'em. I'll go underground for a while. I know the Little Gingerbread Boy, he'll hide me until the heat's off."
He fell quiet again, then said wistfully, "Y'know, since 1965, all I've done is hawk dough and giggle whenever that pervert with the finger poked my tummy. 'Smile big, Doughboy! Sell it, Doughboy! Here comes Mister Finger, Doughboy! It's hoo-hoo time!'
"Well, no more. I need a life -- maybe hook up with some sweet little cookie, have two or three doughkids, find a nice little three-bedroom gingerbread in the suburbs, play fetch with the hot dog bun. I've got a few good years before my expiration date."
"Nope," I told the "game warden" in the dark suit with the mirrored glasses and earpiece at the Causeway roadblock. "Haven't seen ... wait a minute ... come to think of it, there WAS a funny-looking little hitchhiker, 'way down on the other side of the Island. Looked like he was headed for the ferry."
As the unmarked, black helicopter lifted off and faded into the summer haze, I drove off -- glancing furtively at my rearview mirror before kicking a crumpled little chef's hat under the seat, out of sight.
