Where Are They Now?
Fred The Donut Guy
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| Like you couldn't tell that there was something wrong just by looking at him. |
While America's complacency as a World Superpower grew throughout the 1980's, Dunkin' Donut's spokesman Fred the Donut Guy preached the virtues of a hard day's work to a generation with his familiar slogan "time to make the donuts." He reminded us all that while donuts are in fact delicious, without a strong, dedicated workforce there would be no donuts for anyone in this great land. It was this unique brand of patriotic salesmanship that vaulted Dunkin' Donuts into the role of America's premiere donut establishment.
The 1990's brought added competition from rival Krispy Kreme. Their machine-made donuts mechanically slathered in a coating of translucent sugar were a fitting metaphor for the nation's new crop of twenty-something slackers. Employees just needed to push the buttons. Dunkin' Donuts CEO, Robert Rosenberg accused his rival of sending the wrong message to America's children, even pointing out that Krispy Kreme was only "one 'K' away from another well known Klan."
Dunkin' Donuts had to accept it's newfound place as second most popular donut chain in the country. Seeking a new hipper image, the company replaced Fred, a symbol of a bygone era. By 1997, Fred the Donut Guy had made his last Dunkin' Donuts commercial and had retired from advertising to become the official "Dunkin' Donuts Diplomat."
But where is he now?
Fred the Donut Guy is resting comfortably at the Walbrook Psychiatric Institution in Cincinnati Ohio, where he has lived his entire adult life. Rosenberg explains, "It's a little known fact that Fred Babbitt, popularly known as 'Fred the Donut Guy' is autistic. 'Time to make the donuts' is just one of the silly little phrases he repeats all day. He was actually the inspiration for Dustin Hoffman's character in Rain Man you know."
The truth is that America's former symbol of an honest day's work hasn't actually ever worked a day in his life. Born with autism in 1946, the year Dunkin' Donuts opened it's first store, Fred had lived at Walbrook since the age of seven when his parents decided that they were no longer fit to care for him. "Sure it was a tough decision," admitted Fred's father Sanford Babbitt, "I mean once he was gone there was nobody to count all the stuff I dropped on the floor and I actually had to look in the TV Guide to remember what time The People's Court was on. Boy did Fred love that Wapner."
In Walbrook, Fred was a creature of routine. His Monday night meal had to be pepperoni pizza, his underwear had to come from K-Mart, and his Donuts had to be Dunkin'. "Every damn morning at 4AM he would come pounding on my door, fully dressed-still does," recalled Walbrook Mental Health Worker Dr. Bruner, "'Time to make the donuts' he'd say sleepily, 'Time to make the donuts.' At first it was cute, but after ten years or so, it got to be a little grating."
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| This autographed picture of Fred recently sold for $1.25 on Ebay. |
In order to avert a screaming fit, every morning at 4AM for twenty-nine consecutive years Dr. Bruner would bring Fred to a local Dunkin' Donuts and wait until 5:00 when the first employees arrived. The store didn't actually open until 6:00, so Fred would repeatedly yell "time to make the donuts" through the glass windows while the employees set up the equipment. Eventually, the store began opening earlier, but that didn't satisfy Fred. "You can tell me your job sucks all you want, but I won't shed a tear," grumbled morning manager Sheila Radford, "Because until you have a fat balding lunatic in a Hitler mustache screaming at you for an hour every morning, you will have no idea what hell on Earth is."
As much as the employees hated to admit it, Fred's daily ranting was actually good for business. His Cincinnati Dunkin' Donuts eventually opened at 3:59AM sharp everyday and became the most profitable franchise in the company's history. That's when Robert Rosenberg knew he was on to something. "Once we realized the motivational effect he had on the Cincinnati crew, we decided that we had to make him the nation-wide mascot for the company," he beamed, "Sure, the idea of having a chubby mental patient fill the role usually occupied by a cartoon bear or some imaginary fantasy creature didn't go over big with the other board members, but we rolled the dice and came up winners."
Over the next decade, Dunkin' Donuts tripled their business thanks to Fred's powers of persuasion. "He could even sell the freaking holes of donuts to people! We used to just throw those things away!" added an excited Rosenberg. However, just shooting commercials with him standing outside the store was getting old. But the problem was, taking Fred to a new location would interrupt his sacred routine, resulting a huge screaming fit from a little man. "So what we did was improvise," gloated director Barry Levinson who shot all Fred's Dunkin' Donuts commercials, "We'd bring our sets to the Cincinnati store and just set them up around Fred while he impatiently waited for his morning donut. A bedroom, a kitchen, a tropical island-it didn't matter because he just had one line to say and he always said it the same way!"
At the end of the 1980's, Dunkin' Donuts was waging a delicious sugar-coated two-front war. The opponents were Krispy Kreme, and the National Association for the Mentally Ill (NAMI), who protested Fred's poor salary, lack of an actual contract, and the fact that donuts were cruelly withheld from him, sometimes for several hours, while Levinson and his crew waited for just the right take to use for their commercials. "All the guy wants is a donut and suddenly there's all these people powdering his face with makeup, setting up fake palm trees around him, making him wear a flower necklace and hold a Fruit Coolatta," explained NAMI spokesperson Jessica Oshier, "Don't you see something wrong with that?"
what does a retired mascot and "official Dunkin' Donuts Diplomat" actually do? Robert Rosenberg is the first to admit that the title is just a public relations ploy. "I'm not really sure what Fred is up to these days," the billionaire smirked, "He's probably just counting toothpicks or something."
