By: John S. Morlu II, CPA
Introduction
Once upon a time in a land not so far away, there was a humble, greasy burger joint called Cheeseburger King, run by a guy named Bob. Now, Bob was your average Joe—well, average Bob—who made a mean cheeseburger that could knock your socks off, but his restaurant was emptier than a karaoke bar on a Monday morning.
“Maybe it’s the cheese-to-burger ratio?” he pondered one fateful afternoon, rubbing his chin like a philosopher on the verge of a culinary breakthrough. He tried doubling the cheese (too cheesy), then halving it (not cheesy enough), and even swapping it out for tofu (spoiler alert: disaster). Despite these creative efforts, Cheeseburger King remained the town’s best-kept secret—known only to a few die-hard cheese enthusiasts and the occasional lost tourist in search of… well, anything but tofu.
But here’s the kicker—Bob didn’t realize his real problem wasn’t the burger, the cheese, or even the tofu (though, let’s agree, the tofu was a mistake). What Bob needed was branding. You see, branding is like putting a bow on a puppy—it turns something already awesome into something downright irresistible. And in a town where Noodle Empire was serving up stir-fried noodles with a side of flair, and Pizza Castle was slinging pies with the speed of light, Bob needed his puppy to not just wag its tail but sparkle.
So what happens when you mix burgers, donuts, and just the right amount of confusion? Well, sit tight because we’re about to dive into the world of branding with a cast of fictional characters who will show us the way. And if you’re lucky, you might even pick up a few tips to transform your own small business from “meh” to “whoa!” Spoiler: it involves more than just slapping extra cheese on a burger. Let’s get started, shall we?
Chapter 1: Bob Meets Ethel—The Branding Wizard
Bob’s fortunes changed the day he met Ethel, a branding wizard whose magical abilities extended only to business advice and wearing capes in weather that absolutely did not require them. It was a sweltering 90 degrees, and there Ethel stood, cape billowing in the non-existent breeze, as if a fan followed her around just for dramatic effect.
Bob was outside his restaurant, wiping down tables that no one had used in hours, when Ethel floated in like she owned the place. She surveyed the scene—ketchup bottles filled to the brim, unused napkins stacked higher than Bob’s cholesterol, and the neon sign flashing “Cheeseburger King” with a proud, albeit slightly deranged-looking, burger donning a crooked crown. Ethel sighed deeply, the kind of sigh you’d expect from a parent realizing their child’s finger-painting was never destined for the fridge, let alone the Louvre.
“You,” she said, pointing at Bob with a dramatic flick of her cape, “need a brand.”
Bob squinted, wiping his hands on his grease-stained apron. “I have a brand,” he protested, gesturing toward the neon sign with a sense of pride only a man who once considered naming his business ‘Bob’s Burgers’ could muster. “See? Cheeseburger King. I even crowned the little burger on the sign. It’s a king, get it?”
Ethel raised an eyebrow and patted Bob on the back like you’d console someone who just confidently told you the earth is flat. “Oh, Bob, sweet summer child. What you’ve got there is a name. It’s not a brand. A brand is… well, it’s everything. It’s the story people tell about your business when you’re not around. It’s the feeling they get when they see your logo. It’s the reason they’d rather eat your burger than, say, go to Noodle Empire down the street and watch a guy juggle chopsticks while serving lo mein.”
Bob blinked slowly, trying to digest this wisdom along with the half-cooked burger he had scarfed down earlier. “So… like the essence of cheese?”
Ethel sighed again, deeper this time. “Sure, Bob. Let’s go with that.”
But Bob wasn’t done. “Wait, are you saying people don’t come here because they don’t know my ‘essence’? I mean, I am Cheeseburger King. Look at that crown!” He pointed again, the neon flickering as if even the sign had given up hope.
Ethel snapped her fingers, making Bob jump. “No, Bob, they’re not coming because you’re just another burger joint to them. What makes you different? What makes you special? What’s your story? Right now, you’re just a guy flipping patties in a joint with a flashy sign and maybe too many unused napkins.”
Bob looked around his restaurant. “I thought people came for the burgers. You know, because of the cheese?”
Ethel chuckled. “Oh, sweet, naive Bob. People don’t just buy burgers; they buy experiences, they buy into stories. Why do you think people line up for hours at that fancy donut shop downtown? It’s not because they desperately need another donut. It’s because they’ve heard that those donuts are like bites of heaven dipped in unicorn dreams. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter; it’s the story, the brand.”
Bob scratched his head. “Unicorn dreams?”
Ethel waved a hand. “Metaphorically speaking. The point is, a brand isn’t just a name or a logo. It’s how you make people feel. It’s the way you’re remembered. It’s the thing that makes someone say, ‘I need Bob’s burger in my life, no other burger will do.’ Right now, you’re just a name on a sign.”
Bob stared at her, the gears in his brain slowly turning like an old, rusty clock. “So… more cheese?”
Ethel groaned. “No, Bob. Less about the cheese, more about you. What makes you the king of cheeseburgers? What’s your story?”
Bob hesitated. “Well, I used to be a plumber, but then I decided one day, ‘Hey, I like burgers more than clogged toilets.’ So, I opened up this place.”
Ethel snapped her fingers. “That’s it! That’s your story! You’re not just some burger guy. You’re Bob, the man who traded plungers for patties, who found his calling between two buns. Now we’re getting somewhere!”
Bob’s eyes lit up for the first time in what felt like years. “Wait, people want to hear about that?”
“Yes!” Ethel exclaimed, her cape flaring dramatically as she spun in a circle. “They want to know you. They want to connect with your story. And not just with words, Bob. Your brand has to reflect that story. Your logo, your restaurant’s atmosphere, even the way you talk about your burgers. Everything should scream, ‘I’m Bob, I left a life of plunging toilets to make the best dang cheeseburgers this side of town!’”
Bob’s eyes widened. “So no more tofu experiments?”
Ethel looked horrified. “Absolutely not. Leave tofu to the health nuts. You’re Bob, the burger guy. Own it.”
Bob grinned for the first time that day. “Alright, Ethel. I think I’m starting to get it. So what’s next?”
Ethel clapped her hands together. “Next, we build your brand from the ground up. We get rid of that sad little burger with its crooked crown and create something iconic, something that says, ‘Bob’s Burgers are king, but not in the generic, ‘I threw a crown on it’ way. We’ll add some humor, some heart, and a whole lot of Bob.”
Bob puffed out his chest, feeling like a king—not of burgers, but of branding. “I like it. What do we call it?”
Ethel smiled. “Simple. We call it… Bob’s Big Break.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And then, we make sure that when people hear about your story, they can’t help but crave one of your burgers, cheese and all.”
And that, folks, was the moment Bob began his journey from a greasy burger joint nobody knew to the legend that became Bob’s Big Break, where every burger came with a side of story and a whole lot of heart.
Chapter 2: Cheeseburger King Gets a Story
If you’re going to crack the secret code of branding, you need to understand one simple truth: humans are hardwired for stories. It’s not just about selling a product—it’s about selling an experience, an idea, a narrative. Think about it: would we still remember Thomas Edison if he hadn’t crafted a good story around that lightbulb? Probably not. Spoiler alert—he didn’t even invent it. But Edison was smart. He branded it. And just like that, Bob needed to brand his cheeseburgers. Because nothing says “I’m your new favorite place to eat” like a story that sticks.
Ethel, with her cape fluttering dramatically in the perfectly still air of Bob’s restaurant, decided Bob’s backstory needed some flavor. Not the literal kind, though—Bob had enough cheese to cover that. She meant emotional flavor. Something that would tug at the heartstrings, make people feel like they were biting into a legend with every cheeseburger. You know, the kind of tale that makes people want to Instagram their food before they even take a bite.
“Bob,” Ethel said, twirling her cape for emphasis (again, unnecessary, but who’s counting?), “you need a backstory. Something that makes your cheeseburgers unforgettable.”
Bob blinked, holding up a bun like it might hold the answer. “I thought my cheeseburgers were already unforgettable,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”
Ethel sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for someone who just found out their flight was delayed but still held onto hope. “Oh, Bob. The cheeseburgers are fine—great even—but you need something more. A story. A legend. Let’s say you discovered the perfect cheeseburger recipe while lost in the Swiss Alps. Picture it: snow, mountains, a culinary epiphany that changed your life. It’s been your life’s mission to share that taste with the world.”
Bob scratched his head, genuinely trying to imagine himself anywhere near the Swiss Alps. “But I’ve never been to Switzerland. I don’t even like snow. Isn’t that… well, lying?”
Ethel raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, the way someone might when they’re about to drop a wisdom bomb. “Is it lying, Bob, or is it storytelling? Edison didn’t invent the lightbulb, but do you see people fact-checking him every time they flip a switch? No. They remember the guy with the big story. So, is it lying if it helps people enjoy your cheeseburgers more? Edison would say no.”
Bob wasn’t totally convinced, but the idea intrigued him. Besides, if it worked for Edison, why not Cheeseburger King? And so, with Ethel’s magical touch, Bob’s humble burger joint got a brand makeover. The new tagline: “Swiss-Alp Crafted, King-Approved.”
Bob looked at the sign in awe. “Swiss-Alp Crafted? But I can’t even spell Switzerland without looking it up.”
Ethel patted him on the shoulder. “It’s not about the details, Bob. It’s about the vibe. When people hear that story, they’re going to want to know what it’s like to taste a burger crafted under the stars of the Alps. It’s a fantasy, Bob. And fantasies sell.”
Bob contemplated that for a moment, feeling the weight of his cape—not literally, but in spirit—as Ethel’s words sunk in. “Okay, I get that. So, what else do I need? More cheese?”
“Less cheese, more personality,” Ethel corrected, her tone shifting to the authoritative voice of a branding guru. “You need to share your passion, your vision. Let’s brainstorm some killer social media content. I want you to take your phone and film a series of short clips. Each clip can feature a different aspect of your story. You’ll talk about why you left plumbing, why burgers became your thing, and yes, even how you magically discovered the ‘Alpine’ blend of flavors that makes your burgers special.”
Bob laughed nervously. “But what if I mess it up?”
Ethel waved her hand dismissively. “The only way you can mess it up is if you don’t try. Authenticity wins every time, Bob. People connect with real stories. They’re more forgiving of a slip-up when they feel like they’re getting to know you.”
With that, the magic of branding began to unfold for Bob. He envisioned the clips: him flipping burgers, sharing anecdotes about the ‘plumber-turned-burger-king’ saga, and even talking about how he once tried to sell cheeseburgers at a plumbing convention—an ill-fated idea that ended with no sales and an unexpected fanbase of confused plumbers.
As Ethel hovered over him like a guardian angel with impeccable taste in capes, Bob could feel the gears in his mind turning faster than the neon sign could blink. “So, I’ll be the ‘Alpine’ burger king, flipping patties and telling my story. That’s it?”
Ethel clapped her hands together. “That’s the spirit! Now, go out there and start sharing your journey. The more authentic you are, the more people will flock to your restaurant. You’ll not just sell cheeseburgers—you’ll create a community around them.”
Bob could hardly contain his excitement. “Alright, Ethel! I’m in! Let’s make ‘Swiss-Alp Crafted, King-Approved’ a thing! Because nobody wants to just eat a burger; they want a slice of my story served between two buns!”
And thus, the legend of Bob and his ‘Swiss-Alp Crafted’ cheeseburgers began, marking the start of a journey that would take him from the shadows of obscurity to the bright lights of burger fame—one story, one cheeseburger at a time.
Chapter 3: Competitor Chaos—Meet Donut Queen
Just as Bob was starting to get comfortable basking in the warm glow of his newfound cheeseburger success, something truly terrifying appeared on the horizon: Donut Queen. It was a bakery run by Sheila, a ruthless competitor who, by all accounts, had taken branding to the next level. Her logo? A suspiciously similar crown to Bob’s, except perched on top of a smiling donut. And if that weren’t enough, Sheila had one ace up her sleeve that Bob didn’t: a dancing, talking donut mascot named Dave.
Dave the donut didn’t just stand there being sugary and delicious. Oh no, he danced—and he danced on TikTok, which, in the year 2024, was like unleashing a viral cat video, but with sprinkles. Kids adored him. They’d drag their parents into Donut Queen, chanting Dave’s catchphrases and demanding donuts as if their very survival depended on it. Sheila had figured out what Bob now feared was the secret to success: dancing pastries. Bob, for all his charm, was no match for a breakdancing donut with over a million followers.
Staring at Dave’s latest TikTok (which had 300,000 likes in less time than it took Bob to grill a cheeseburger), Bob felt a deep sense of dread. “This is it,” he muttered. “The end of Cheeseburger King. Who needs cheeseburgers when you’ve got a dancing donut?”
And just as Bob was contemplating selling off his restaurant and moving to a small cabin in the woods to start a simpler life, Ethel reappeared. This time, she was draped in a glittery cape—because, as she’d say later, branding is about consistency.
“Relax, Bob,” Ethel said, shaking her head with the calm of someone who’d seen this sort of thing before. “You’re forgetting one crucial thing: differentiation.”
“Uh… Differen-what-now?” Bob asked, looking as lost as the first time someone mentioned TikTok to him.
“Differentiation, Bob. You don’t have to compete with Donut Queen on her terms. You compete on yours. What makes you different? What makes Cheeseburger King special?”
Bob thought for a moment, looking around at his loyal but rapidly dwindling customer base. “Extra bacon? People like bacon, right?”
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!
Chapter 6: The Mascot Debacle—Or, Why You Don’t Always Need a Dancing Donut
At this point in Bob’s cheeseburger kingdom, things were looking pretty golden (like the crispy edges of his famous fries). He had the story. He had the signature look with his burger-shaped chef’s hat. And of course, the catchphrase that had people chanting like they were part of some secret cheeseburger cult. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, Bob made the fatal mistake of thinking, “Hey, if Sheila over at Donut Queen can have Dave the Dancing Donut, why can’t I have a mascot too?”
Thus, Carl the Cheeseburger was born.
Now, Carl was no ordinary mascot. He wasn’t just a person in a cheeseburger suit—oh no, Bob had ambition. He wanted Carl to be a showstopper. A real crowd-pleaser. Carl wasn’t just going to wave politely from the sidewalk like some run-of-the-mill mascot. No, Carl was going to interact, dance, and maybe even do a little juggling with some plastic pickles. He was going to be the cheeseburger everyone would remember.
Bob could already see it: kids laughing, people taking selfies with Carl, social media blowing up with the hashtag #CheeseburgerCarl. He could practically taste the success—like an extra serving of ketchup on his burgers.
But Carl’s debut didn’t exactly go as planned.
On a sweltering hot summer day, Bob sent Carl—played by his cousin Steve, who had a flair for the dramatic—out onto the sidewalk. Steve, squeezed into the cheeseburger suit, looked both ridiculous and strangely regal, as if he were the king of fast food himself. He began waving at passing cars, doing his best impression of Dave the Dancing Donut, throwing in a few awkward twirls.
People stopped, stared, and then… well, they didn’t exactly laugh with Carl. More like they laughed at him. It turns out, cheeseburgers just aren’t as nimble as donuts. Carl’s bun costume was too bulky to allow for much movement, and Steve’s attempts at dancing looked more like he was being attacked by an invisible swarm of bees. Instead of joyful cheers, there were muffled giggles and confused stares.
And then things took a turn for the worse.
You see, cheeseburgers—especially mascot cheeseburgers—don’t fare well under direct sunlight. As the afternoon heat cranked up, Carl’s costume, with its foam cheese and plastic lettuce, began to wilt. The once-proud slice of cheddar hanging from the side of Carl’s suit started to droop. Then, it began to melt—or at least that’s what it looked like. The costume had been designed with a glossy finish to resemble gooey cheese, but under the hot sun, it was turning into a sticky mess.
Soon enough, Steve—er, Carl—wasn’t just waving at the crowd. He was flailing as pieces of his costume began to sag. The foam patty stuck to the back of his legs, and the whole thing started to look less like a fun mascot and more like a cheeseburger catastrophe.
Then, the unthinkable happened. Carl, in his desperate attempts to regain composure, tripped over a stray ketchup packet. Down he went, face-first into the sidewalk, the bun splitting open, lettuce flying everywhere. The crowd gasped. The kids, who had been cautiously watching from the sidelines, let out a collective scream of terror.
Steve, trapped in the melting suit, just lay there, a gooey cheeseburger blob, while Bob raced over with a spatula, trying to scrape Carl off the pavement like some kind of fast-food emergency responder.
The local news was all over it. They called it, of course, “The Cheeseburger Meltdown.” Reporters showed up, asking Bob for a statement. Steve emerged from the ruined mascot suit, drenched in sweat, with cheese residue clinging to his shirt. It wasn’t Bob’s finest moment, to say the least.
For days, the town buzzed about the incident. People couldn’t stop talking about Carl the Cheeseburger’s meltdown. Memes popped up everywhere with captions like “When life gets too cheesy” and “Carl couldn’t handle the heat.”
Bob learned a very important lesson that day: not every brand needs a mascot. Some companies are fine with a dancing donut, sure, but not every fast-food joint needs a character doing the cha-cha in a foam burger suit. Sometimes, all you need is a good product and a little bit of humor. Bob’s chef’s hat shaped like a cheeseburger? Now that was more than enough. No melting. No flailing. Just simple, ridiculous, and memorable—without the catastrophic mess.
As Bob watched the news coverage that night—featuring a replay of Carl’s fall in slow motion—he couldn’t help but laugh. He had been trying to compete with Donut Queen’s Dave the Dancing Donut, but Carl had become a legend in his own way. Sure, it wasn’t exactly what Bob had intended, but it was unforgettable.
And sometimes, that’s all you really need.
From that point on, Bob embraced the lesson that mascots aren’t for everyone. Cheeseburger King didn’t need a dancing burger to prove its worth. It had heart, it had a story, and most importantly, it had customers who loved what Bob stood for: good cheeseburgers, great fun, and a little bit of common sense.
As Bob and Ethel watched the viral “Cheeseburger Meltdown” clips flood social media, Ethel patted him on the back. “Well, Bob, I guess we learned something today.”
Bob grinned. “Yeah, Ethel. Sometimes it’s better to just let the cheeseburgers speak for themselves.”
Chapter 7: The Great Lesson—Branding is About Consistency
In the grand scheme of burger-flipping brilliance, Bob’s true branding success didn’t come from flashy gimmicks, extravagant ads, or Carl the Melting Cheeseburger. Nope. It all boiled down to one simple, glorious truth: consistency.
You see, Bob wasn’t out there trying to reinvent the cheeseburger wheel. He didn’t start crafting burgers with gold flakes or adding truffle oil to his fries to compete with gourmet joints. (Honestly, who needs truffle oil when you have perfectly melted cheddar?) Instead, he stuck to what worked—his story, his cheeseburger hat, and his unforgettable catchphrase, “Bite the King, taste the crown!”
It might have sounded absurd, but it was his absurdity, and that made it iconic. Every time someone thought about cheeseburgers, their minds didn’t drift to the fanciest or the biggest ones—they thought about Bob, the Cheeseburger King. That was the magic of branding.
Bob had created a brand that was more than just about food—it was about being part of something. Every time a customer walked into his restaurant, they weren’t just biting into a burger; they were taking part in the legend of Bob. It wasn’t about the size of the burger, the fries, or even the fact that Bob occasionally forgot to add pickles (hey, he’s only human). It was about the experience—knowing that they’d be greeted by Bob himself, wearing that ridiculous burger-shaped hat, and hearing him proudly proclaim his catchphrase with gusto.
Bob didn’t need a dancing cheeseburger to keep customers coming back. What he had was consistency—he was always Bob, and the restaurant was always the Cheeseburger King, no matter the trends, no matter the mishaps (like Carl’s public meltdown), and no matter how many fancy burger joints popped up around town.
Because when you’re consistent, people trust you. They know what to expect, and they feel like they’re part of the family—even if that family involves slightly burnt buns and mismatched napkins on occasion.
Chapter 8: Epilogue: Lessons for Small Business Owners (and the Cheeseburger-Inclined)
So, what do we take away from Bob’s epic journey from anonymous burger-flipper to the revered Cheeseburger King? How can you apply these lessons to your own business—whether you’re slinging burgers, selling widgets, or knitting cat sweaters?
- Tell a Story
People love stories more than they love fries with extra ketchup. Make yours interesting, even if it involves completely fabricated trips to Switzerland for “inspiration.” The more personal and relatable, the better. Don’t just sell burgers—sell your burgers. - Differentiate
Find what makes you different and lean into it like you’re leaning into a juicy double cheeseburger. It’s not enough to just add bacon—give your brand a personality, a purpose. Maybe for every cheeseburger sold, you donate one to the local food bank. Or maybe you specialize in extra pickles. Either way, make sure people know what makes you special. - Consistency is Key
Once you’ve found what works—whether it’s your cheeseburger hat, your catchphrase, or your impeccable customer service—stick with it. Consistency builds trust. You want people to know that they’re getting the same quality, experience, and maybe even the same cheesy pun every time. - Catchphrases Matter
People might not remember every item on your menu, but they’ll remember something catchy. Bob’s catchphrase, “Bite the King, taste the crown,” didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it didn’t have to. What mattered was that it was fun and memorable. Make sure your catchphrase is something people can repeat (whether it makes sense or not). - Be Memorable
Let’s be real: a cheeseburger-shaped hat is downright absurd. But that’s what made Bob memorable. Your brand doesn’t need to be over-the-top, but it should be unforgettable. Whether it’s your quirky logo, your unique product packaging, or your delightful customer service—give people something that makes them think of you even when they’re not in your store (or, in Bob’s case, eating burgers). - Don’t Follow the Crowd
Just because Sheila over at Donut Queen has Dave the Dancing Donut doesn’t mean you need Carl the Cheeseburger (R.I.P. Carl). Stick to what makes sense for your brand. Don’t chase after trends just because everyone else is doing it. Sometimes, simple is better. Or, at the very least, less likely to melt on a hot summer day. - Adapt When Necessary
Bob learned the hard way that not all branding ideas are winners. Carl the Cheeseburger was a disaster (though he did make for some killer internet memes). The key takeaway? Don’t be afraid to try new things, but also be ready to pivot when those things fail—spectacularly or otherwise. After Carl’s meltdown, Bob didn’t give up on branding; he went back to what worked: the story, the hat, the catchphrase. - Engage with Your Community
Bob’s brand didn’t just grow because of clever marketing—it grew because he connected with his community. Whether it was his donation campaign or just being the friendly face in the burger joint, people felt like they were part of something bigger than themselves—something cheesy, yes, but also purposeful. Find ways to give back, engage, and make your customers feel like they’re part of your brand’s story.
In the end, Bob’s success wasn’t about having the best burgers in town or the flashiest ads. It was about being himself—consistently, ridiculously, and unapologetically Bob. And that, folks, is the real secret to branding: staying true to who you are and letting the world fall in love with that.
Chapter 8: Final Thought—Branding is a Long-Term Game
If you’re a small business owner, it’s easy to get lost in the day-to-day grind. You’ve got invoices to chase, stock to manage, and that one customer who keeps asking if you’ll ever serve gluten-free fries. (Spoiler: probably not.) With all the chaos, branding might feel like something only the big guys—the ones with billion-dollar budgets and spokes-animals—have time for. But that’s where you’re wrong, my fellow entrepreneurial dreamer. Branding isn’t just for those towering corporations with slick ads and celebrity endorsements; it’s for you. Yes, you, slinging burgers, consulting, selling handmade soap, or running a podcast from your garage.
Here’s what Bob’s wild journey to burger royalty teaches us: branding is a necessity. It’s not some cherry-on-top, when-I-have-time thing. If you want to stand out, get noticed, and thrive in a world where attention spans are shorter than Carl the Cheeseburger’s career, branding is your best friend. And I mean best friend—the kind of friend who’ll help you move a couch up three flights of stairs.
Think of branding like a slow-cooked stew (or, since we’re on theme, like a perfectly grilled burger). It’s a long-term game. It’s about more than just your logo, your colors, or your website’s snazzy font. It’s about consistency, storytelling, and making people feel something every time they encounter your business. Each little piece of your brand—your story, your visuals, the customer experience—is how people will remember you. It’s how they’ll talk about you to friends. And most importantly, it’s how they’ll decide whether or not to open their wallets.
So, go ahead—be like Bob. Put on that burger-shaped hat, metaphorically speaking (unless you’re actually selling burgers, in which case, by all means, rock that hat). Embrace your weirdness, your quirks, and what makes your business uniquely yours. Whether you’re a one-person show or you’ve got a small team, you have something special to offer. Lean into it. Find your voice—whether it’s loud and proud or quietly brilliant. But make sure it’s yours, and make sure people know it.
Because, at the end of the day, that’s what Bob’s story is all about. He didn’t have the fanciest burgers or the biggest marketing budget. What he had was himself—in all his cheeseburger-hatted glory. He found a way to make people laugh, remember, and, most importantly, come back for more. He turned a simple burger joint into something legendary by being consistent, memorable, and just a little bit absurd. And guess what? That’s a formula that works.
So whether your catchphrase is “Bite the King” or something as off-the-wall as “Pet the Puppy, Hug the Cupcake” (hey, it could happen), own it. Stick with it. Give people something they can latch onto, something that makes them smile, and something that reminds them of why they love coming to your business in the first place.
Because one day, if you play the branding game right, you might just have customers walking through your doors, chanting your catchphrase like it’s the gospel. And in that moment, as you stand there—perhaps wearing your burger-shaped hat or whatever quirky symbol defines your brand—you’ll know that you didn’t just build a business. You built something even better: a brand that people love.
And that, my friend, is worth more than all the melted cheese in the world.
Final Pro Tip
If you’re ever tempted to put a cheeseburger on a sidewalk to promote your brand—just don’t.
Author: John S. Morlu II, CPA is the CEO and Chief Strategist of JS Morlu, leads a globally recognized public accounting and management consultancy firm. Under his visionary leadership, JS Morlu has become a pioneer in developing cutting-edge technologies across B2B, B2C, P2P, and B2G verticals. The firm’s groundbreaking innovations include AI-powered reconciliation software (ReckSoft.com) and advanced cloud accounting solutions (FinovatePro.com), setting new industry standards for efficiency, accuracy, and technological excellence.
