Can I get a side of bacon with that sexist pig?

While helping me move recently, my good friend Rose let slip her plan for a sure-fire, big money-making business venture. It’s been three days since we talked and I’m still creeped out, marginally appalled, and fervently hoping she never finds the financial resources to actually go through with it.

Rose’s idea isn’t entirely original. It’s based, loosely, on another successful business chain, which I will not name here.

Let’s just say it’s a restaurant; a restaurant I’ve never been to, one named after a nocturnal bird’s call and featuring buxom women who are—so I am told—just way too excited to see any male customer who walks through the door.

My son Jordan goes there frequently with business acquaintances, friends, and on one notable occasion, my then-13-year-old stepson, James. James’ mother was not pleased, as I recall. Both boys raved enthusiastically about the place, though the menu and décor were mentioned not at all.

At any rate, back to Rose. She’s a sweet girl, kind, a little shy, generous, and in my opinion, a little too quick to appreciate a robust, well-proportioned example of the male species. (She uses the term “buff,” though, oddly enough, never while talking about me.)

Rose’s idea is to establish a chain of restaurants modeled after…oh, for the sake of expediency, let’s call it “Hoofer’s.” The difference would be this: Instead of beautiful, young, giggling girls, the wait staff would be made up exclusively of “hunky” guys. Shirtless. In tight, white shorts. Wearing roller skates, for all I know.

Rose calls it “Chester’s.”

She first mentioned it as we drove east on I-96 with my third truckload of personal belongings (proof that I’ve lived comfortably too long and need to get back to my Zen/Buddhist/Native American/impoverished Irish-Catholic roots). We were cruising past a billboard for deodorant or something that featured the shaved torso of a guy that had obviously spent his formative years sweating profusely beneath a 300-pound barbell while subsisting exclusively on a diet of carrot juice and anabolic steroids.

“It’s about time,” Rose said.

“Huh?” I said.

“It’s about time,” she repeated. “You always see those Victoria’s Secret ads with half-dressed girls. It’s about time they finally plastered some hunky guy shots around.”

Then she told me of her plans for Chester’s. At first, I didn’t think much about it one way or the other. But the more I considered the notion, the creepier it seemed to me.

I was, I discovered, uncomfortable with the idea of men being seen as sex objects, oiled-up eye candy for power-lunching business women in Donna Karan dresses and Manolo Blahnik heels. I mean, we guys harnessed electricity, invented the flush toilet, built the nation’s highway system! We deserve better than to be treated like mindless cuddle bunnies!

And yes, it has occurred to me that I never really had a problem with the Hoofer’s girls. That is entirely different. Though I’m not sure exactly how. I’ll have to get back with you on that one.

Meanwhile, I keep hoping Rose doesn’t find the financial backers she needs to get Chester’s off the ground. Date night would never be the same.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.