Seated across from the openly gay young man about to move in with his nubile 20-year-old daughter, wrestling titan Hulk Hogan regards her prospective roommate with the benign wariness of an ape confronted with a tiny, snickering titmouse.

"You're like family to us," he begins on Brooke Knows Best (8 p.m. tomorrow on MMM), the daughter-centric reality offshoot of Hogan Knows Best.

"We trust you, but . . . (awkward pause) . . . you're gay, which is cool! No big deal there. A bunch of my best wrestling friends are gay!"

A lot of his best friends are gay -- quick, stop the presses! "Hulk down with gay thing! Also feels affinity for Jews, Latinos and Little People."

Oops, not so fast. Having apparently read up on "grey areas" on the sexual spectrum, the slow-witted he-man -- vaguely cartoonish with his cantaloupe-sized biceps, Fu Manchu moustache and hair that hangs like thin strands of spaghetti -- wants to be sure there's no room for, er, crossover.

"On the big, big barometer of the gay scale -- with 10 being the gayest," he poses, his tiny brain humming with exertion, "where are you at?"

The mortified college kid, unwilling to risk one of Hogan's signature Scoop Slams or, worse, the Atomic Leg Drop, swallows hard and looks at the camera.

"I'd say I am gay," he reveals, trying to keep a straight face. "I wouldn't say 'gayest,' but I would say I'm a 10-gay!"

A 10-gay! Convinced he poses no danger to his daughter's virtue, the furrowed muscleman looks relieved: "That works!"

But he's only on a show that should be retitled Brooke May Think She Knows Best But She's Out of Her Mind Says Her Meddling Dad (mind you, that's a pretty long title).

And, anyway, what does Hulk know?

Hogan Knows Best and its wise-parenting premise had to be scrapped when he and wife Linda divorced after his affair with his daughter's best friend and a horrific car crash landed drunk-driving son Nick in jail and his best pal in critical condition.

The only way to continue, it seems, was by shifting the focus to wholesome daughter Brooke and her singing career, a ploy that proves as hollow as a celebrity "just friends" rumour when her lumbering, blundering dad drops by like a slumming '70s superhero to lecture her about personal safety, begs to move in as her third roommate and generally overstays his welcome.

"This is the last night you'll have my guidance, wisdom, protection and direction," he bellyaches as she attempts, for the umpteenth time, to shove him out the door.

Sigh.

It's not easy being an aging behemoth whose exaggerated body proportions make you look like Pamela Anderson crossed with a bullfrog.

You may think you're "way cool" in your Axl Rose bandana and sunglasses, but once your integrity's on the ropes, the sounds emanating from your fissure-lined craw are less likely to be perceived as nuggets of fatherly wisdom than, simply, the cry of the damned.

jrubinoff@therecord.com