The boss of the week was the owner of Bikini's Sports Bar and Grill, a breastaurant chain in the model of Hooters and the Tilted Kilt. Breastaurant owners have been mentioned in this column before, and mocked for pretending to be high-minded individuals who think their customers would buy just as much food and drink in their joints if they weren't surrounded by young, firm-breasted women in revealing bras.
Doug Guller, the CEO of Bikinis, takes the opposite approach. He says proudly that he realizes no one would patronize his restaurants if he didn't populate his floors with women in bikini tops and Daisy Duke shorts. He knows that men like boobs, beer and sports, most of them exactly in that order, and that's what he serves up. Doug is honest, but in his case it's not much of a virtue.
Doug was once employed by a soulless corporation that performed some useful function in the economy. This, according to Doug, made him deeply unhappy, although he was apparently paid and thought well of enough there that he was able to take a six-month sabbatical from his job in order to search for meaning in his life. That sabbatical led him to Australia, where he had his epiphany concerning the longing of men to look at less than fully dressed women when they're drinking. Many of us drinkers/breast enthusiasts have had our eureka moment concerning boobs and beer closer to home, but let Doug tell it his way, because it's already apparent he's not the sharpest pixel on the screen.
He returned home and poured all of his savings into his first restaurant. He also claims to have copyrighted the word "breastaurant," although copyrighting a word which you didn't think of or pay someone else to think of and which existed in print before you founded your restaurant chain is something that could only the most conscienceless slime-ball of an attorney would attempt. Doug knows such an attorney. In fact, I would guess they are close relatives, because Doug is about to show us what that he is pretty well coated with loathsome mucus himself.
At his very first stop at one of his bars, disguised Doug is distressed that his bartender is wearing a t-shirt instead of a bikini top. She explains that because she is going to be videotaped today (under some pretext, so she wouldn't know Doug was her Undercover Boss) she decided not to wear a bikini top on camera. This effort by one of his to claim ownership of her own breasts distresses Dough nearly to the point of nausea. He takes the bartender outside and draws her out about her thoughts concerning her employment at Bikinis, where he discovers that his bartender is aware that having drunks stare at her knobs is not a career opportunity that will last a lifetime, and that she is actually looking for work that does not involve having alcoholics burp into her bra.
Upon discovering that employee not only has firmer breasts but a firmer grip on reality than he does, Doug feels utterly betrayed. Torn by finding out that he has the Edward Snowden of tits on his payroll, in the final Boss sequence, while other, more docile employees are getting the usual UB gifts of raises, bonuses, surgery for their afflicted relatives and free breast augmentations, Doug fires his bartender. Then, perhaps as a sign of some slight self-awareness, akin maybe to the self-awareness possessed by an eel roiling happily around in a big mound of whale dung on the bottom of the ocean, he offers to help her distribute her resume around town, so she can find work for herself and her boobs someplace else.
"You think I'm going to let the jerk who just fired me find me another job?" she replies, or something along those lines. "F*ck you!" she adds, perkily.
Brevity is the soul of clarity, as the wise man once said, and I'll add nothing further here, except this: Breastaurant, Breastaurant, Breastaurant. Go ahead Doug, sue me. I need a new job, too.