By John S Morlu II, CPA
Ethel sighed. “No, Bob. This is bigger than bacon. It’s about showing people why your cheeseburgers matter, and not just because they’re delicious. You need to give your brand a deeper meaning. Something that resonates with people and keeps them coming back for more than just the food.”
Bob squinted, trying to wrap his head around it. “So… dancing burgers? Like Dave?”
Ethel nearly choked on her herbal tea. “No, Bob. No dancing. You need a purpose. Something that makes people feel good about eating your burgers. Something memorable. You’ve got great food—now give people a reason to care about where they buy it.”
That’s when it hit them. Bob didn’t need to make his burgers dance or spin around like donuts on TikTok. He needed a story that went beyond the bun. Something that would not only set him apart from Sheila and her sprinkles but also connect with people on a more personal level. And thus, the idea of “cheeseburgers with a purpose” was born.
For every burger Bob sold, Cheeseburger King would donate a meal to a local shelter. It was simple, heartfelt, and, most importantly, completely different from Sheila’s glitzy donut dances. While Donut Queen could make your kids giggle, Cheeseburger King would make you feel like you were helping make the world a little bit better—one cheeseburger at a time.
At first, Bob was nervous. Would people really go for this? Would they even care? But soon, the news of Cheeseburger King’s “meals-for-meals” program spread faster than Dave could do the worm on TikTok. Local customers started pouring in, wanting not just a cheeseburger, but the feeling of contributing to something bigger. And it didn’t take long for the local news to catch wind of it, running a feature on Bob’s newfound social mission. Suddenly, Bob was a hometown hero, known not just for his burgers but for his big heart.
Sheila? She wasn’t too thrilled. Sure, Dave the donut still got his TikTok views, but Donut Queen was losing traction. Sheila tried everything—glazed donuts, stuffed donuts, even donuts in the shape of cheeseburgers—but nothing could compete with Bob’s cheeseburgers that meant something.
As Bob stood behind the grill, flipping patties and watching his once-empty restaurant fill up with eager customers, he couldn’t help but smile. “I’m a cheeseburger king with a cause,” he thought to himself, the weight of the world (or at least Donut Dave) lifting from his shoulders.
Ethel, watching the hustle and bustle from the counter, gave Bob a nod of approval. “See, Bob? Differentiation. You don’t need dancing mascots or glittery donuts. You just need to show people why you matter. And now, you’ve got a story they won’t forget.”
Bob grinned. “So, I’m like… the Robin Hood of cheeseburgers?”
Ethel chuckled. “Something like that, Bob. Just less tights.”
And so, while Donut Queen danced and spun on TikTok, Cheeseburger King quietly won the battle. Not with flashy moves or sugary gimmicks, but with good old-fashioned common sense, a big heart, and—of course—a side of fries.
Chapter 4: The Steve Jobs Effect—Jeans and Turtlenecks
Bob’s next big branding lesson came straight from Silicon Valley, courtesy of one of the most iconic figures in tech history: Steve Jobs. Now, Jobs didn’t just revolutionize computers and phones; he also revolutionized the idea of personal branding. The man wore the same thing every day—jeans and a black turtleneck—and somehow turned it into a signature look that practically screamed “Apple genius.”
Naturally, Ethel saw a lesson here.
“You need a signature look, Bob,” Ethel said, sipping from a reusable eco-friendly cup that probably cost more than Bob’s whole wardrobe. “Something people will instantly associate with you and your cheeseburgers. Just like Steve Jobs and his turtleneck.”
Bob wrinkled his nose. “You mean like a cape?”
Ethel immediately recoiled. “No, Bob. Absolutely no capes. We’re trying to make you memorable, not turn you into a comic book villain.”
Bob scratched his head. “So what, then? I’m not really a jeans-and-turtleneck kind of guy.”
“No, but think along the lines of iconic simplicity,” Ethel explained, launching into one of her trademark monologues. “It’s about creating an image, a look, that people can associate with your brand. Steve Jobs had the turtleneck. Colonel Sanders had the white suit and string tie. Even Ronald McDonald has… well, clown shoes, but let’s aim higher than that.”
They brainstormed for what felt like hours. Ethel threw out ideas like aprons embroidered with gold thread, while Bob countered with, “How about a burger spatula as a scepter?” Finally, after what felt like enough discussion to launch a fashion line, Bob had a flash of inspiration.
“What if… I wear a chef’s hat shaped like a cheeseburger?” Bob suggested, his eyes wide with excitement.
Ethel paused, considering the ridiculousness of it for a second too long. Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face. “Bob, that’s insane. Which means it’s perfect.”
It didn’t take long for the hat to arrive, and when it did, it was everything Bob had dreamed of. It looked like a perfectly cooked cheeseburger—complete with lettuce, tomato, and a sesame-seed bun—perched proudly on his head. At first glance, it was utterly ridiculous. But once Bob donned the hat, something magical happened. People stared. They pointed. They laughed, sure, but then they came over and asked about the hat. Before Bob knew it, he was no longer just “Bob, the guy who owns Cheeseburger King.” He was Cheeseburger King Bob, the man with the burger-shaped hat.
The hat became a local sensation. Everywhere Bob went, people would shout, “Hey, it’s Cheeseburger King Bob!” Kids giggled, adults smiled, and people from all over town started visiting his restaurant just to meet the guy with the hat. They’d ask for selfies, and Bob, ever the gracious cheeseburger monarch, would oblige, cheeseburger hat bobbing along in every picture.
Soon, people weren’t just coming for the food—they were coming for the experience. Because Bob wasn’t just selling cheeseburgers anymore; he was selling a brand, a story, and a little bit of absurdity wrapped up in a sesame-seed bun of fun.
Business boomed. The local news ran a segment called “Meet Cheeseburger Bob: The King of Burgers and Hats,” and within days, Bob’s restaurant was packed with people curious to see the man in the burger hat. The cheeseburger hat wasn’t just a gimmick—it was branding gold. It turned Bob from just another restaurant owner into a character. And, as any marketing wizard like Ethel will tell you, characters are memorable. People don’t remember the guy down the street with the generic burger joint, but they definitely remember Cheeseburger Bob, the king with the burger hat.
As Bob strutted through town, cheeseburger hat perched proudly, he noticed something amazing: people were starting to associate him personally with his brand. His face, his goofy burger hat, and his restaurant were now all inextricably linked in the minds of his customers. He was a walking, talking billboard for Cheeseburger King—and he loved every minute of it.
But with all this newfound fame came a new challenge. Everywhere he went, people expected him to wear the hat. It wasn’t just a marketing gimmick anymore; it had become Bob’s identity. One day, while shopping at the grocery store sans cheeseburger hat, a child tugged at his mother’s sleeve and whispered, “Mommy, that man looks like Cheeseburger Bob, but where’s his burger hat?”
Bob quickly ducked behind a display of canned beans and made a mental note: from now on, the hat was mandatory. No matter where he went, Cheeseburger Bob would always be in full burger-headed regalia. There was no turning back.
In the end, Ethel was right, as usual. The Steve Jobs effect had worked. Bob didn’t need jeans or a turtleneck; he needed a ridiculous cheeseburger hat. And with that simple, absurd stroke of genius, Bob cemented his place in the hearts—and stomachs—of his customers.
As Bob flipped burgers at the grill one evening, a customer approached him with a smile. “You know, Bob,” the man said, “every time I see a cheeseburger now, I think of you and that hat. You really are the Cheeseburger King.”
Bob beamed. “Well, that’s the idea,” he said, adjusting his burger hat proudly.
And as he looked around at the bustling restaurant, filled with happy customers wearing souvenir mini cheeseburger hats of their own, Bob realized that Ethel’s crazy ideas weren’t just marketing strategies—they were plain old common sense, served with a side of humor and topped with a sesame seed bun.
In the end, it wasn’t just about selling cheeseburgers. It was about being unforgettable.
And with his burger hat bobbing along, Cheeseburger King Bob knew one thing for sure: unforgettable was exactly what he had become.
Chapter 5: The Power of Catchphrases
If there’s one thing you should take away from history, it’s that humans love a good catchphrase. Just look at Thomas Edison. Sure, he’s the guy who brought us the lightbulb (sort of), but do we really remember him for inventing it? Nah. What we remember is that cocky line about how he didn’t fail 10,000 times—he just found 10,000 ways that didn’t work.
Spoiler alert: Edison didn’t fail 10,000 times. The real number was something like 2,774, but “I didn’t fail 2,774 times” just doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it? This is Branding 101, folks. Give people a line they can remember, and they’ll stick it on a bumper sticker, shout it from the rooftops, or in Bob’s case—chant it while waiting in line for a cheeseburger.
Now, Bob needed a catchphrase for Cheeseburger King. A line so good, people would be repeating it in their sleep. But coming up with the right catchphrase is no easy feat. You can’t just sit around eating cheeseburgers and hope inspiration strikes—except that’s exactly what Bob did. For three days straight. He sat in his kitchen, sampling his own cheeseburgers, trying to think of a phrase that summed up the essence of his delicious creations.
At first, he dabbled in the obvious:
· “King-sized flavor in every bite!”
· “Rule your hunger with a crown of cheese!”
· “The burger fit for a king—and you!”
These were… fine. But they didn’t quite hit the mark. They were more competent than catchy.
Enter Ethel, once again. She found Bob slumped over a tower of cheeseburgers, muttering to himself, “Crown… cheese… bite…” like some kind of medieval food wizard conjuring up a spell.
“You’re overthinking it, Bob,” Ethel said, grabbing a cheeseburger for herself. “The best catchphrases don’t always make sense. They just stick. Look at Nike—’Just Do It.’ Do what? Why? Nobody cares! But everyone says it.”
Bob sat up straight, eyes wide. “That’s it! It doesn’t have to make sense!”
And thus, the now-legendary catchphrase was born: “Bite the King, taste the crown!”
Was it logical? Not really. Did it perfectly encapsulate the burger-eating experience? Nope. But it was catchy—really catchy. It sounded like something that should mean something, even if it didn’t. And that, my friends, is the magic of a good catchphrase.
At first, Bob wasn’t sure how people would react. He tried it out on a few regulars. “Bite the King, taste the crown!” he’d say with a grin, waiting for their response. And you know what? They laughed. But then they started repeating it. The phrase bounced around like a ping-pong ball, and soon enough, it caught on.
People began walking into Cheeseburger King chanting it like it was a sports slogan. “Bite the King, taste the crown!” they’d cry as they ordered, waving their hands like they were already holding invisible cheeseburgers. It didn’t matter that it made no sense. It was fun. It was silly. And it was exactly what Cheeseburger King needed.
The magic of a catchphrase, Bob quickly learned, is that it turns your brand into something people want to talk about. You can have the best product in the world, but if nobody remembers you, you’re toast. With “Bite the King, taste the crown!” stuck in everyone’s head, Bob’s cheeseburgers were no longer just lunch—they were an experience.
In no time, the catchphrase was everywhere. Kids were saying it to their friends at school, adults were working it into casual conversation, and social media was buzzing with photos of people biting into Bob’s burgers with the caption, “#BiteTheKing.” Some folks even started showing up in cardboard crowns, declaring themselves royal burger tasters.
Bob was on cloud nine. But the real kicker came when a group of teens made a viral TikTok video, reenacting the catchphrase like a scene from a medieval drama. “Sire,” one of them would say, “shall I bite the king?” And then the camera would cut to another kid, wearing a paper crown and holding a cheeseburger like a sacred artifact. He’d shout, “Taste the crown!” and take a giant bite.
The internet exploded. Suddenly, “Bite the King, taste the crown!” wasn’t just a catchphrase—it was a movement.
Local news picked up on the trend, and Bob found himself being interviewed by journalists who wanted to know the secret behind the magic phrase. They’d ask, “What does it really mean?” and Bob would just shrug and say, “I think it’s about enjoying the royalty of flavor.” Which, of course, meant absolutely nothing—but it sounded good, and that’s what mattered.
Ethel, watching all this unfold, gave Bob a knowing look. “You see, Bob? It’s not about making sense. It’s about making people feel something. A catchphrase is like a cheeseburger—it doesn’t have to be complicated to work. Just give people something they can sink their teeth into.”
And she was right. As customers came in, chanting the line with glee and snapping selfies with their burgers, Bob realized that his catchphrase had done more than he could have ever imagined. It turned Cheeseburger King from a simple burger joint into a cultural phenomenon. People weren’t just buying cheeseburgers—they were joining a club, a movement, a kingdom.
“Bite the King, taste the crown!” became more than a slogan. It became a rallying cry for anyone who believed in the joy of a good, messy, cheesy, delicious burger. It was silly, sure. But it was also brilliant.
And just like Edison’s 10,000 failures (which, remember, weren’t even true), the catchphrase didn’t need to be accurate—it just needed to stick. And boy, did it stick.
Bob had officially crowned himself King, and his catchphrase was the royal decree that sealed his reign. All hail Cheeseburger King Bob!
