Few of Road House‘s many would-be idioms and aphorisms are afforded as grand a debut as, arguably, the dumbest of them all. You can thank Red West, the actor who plays Red Webster (you can’t spell “Red Webster” without “R-E-D-W-E-S-T”), for that. The man sells every line of down-home wisdom and ain’t-that-a-kick-in-the-head fatalism like Pete Stroudenmire sells roomy family-friendly vehicles during Wagon Days. You can of course also thank Rowdy Herrington, the film’s director, and John F. Link and Frank J. Urioste, the film’s editors, who grind everything to a halt so Red can deliver it almost right into the camera before a hard cut to the topless bar where we first meet Wade Garrett. The line all but takes off its own top and dances around on stage in a g-string, that’s how much attention it gets.

Ah, what line, you ask, and I’m glad you did.

Picture it: Jasper, Missouri, 1989. A young cooler, new in town, visits the small business owned by Red Webster, uncle of the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Red keeps a black and white glamour shot of his niece on the wall of his workplace, piercing the young cooler’s heart, and raising more questions than it answers. On the way into the store the cooler passes by two extremely handsome goons, who stare at him and smile, like crocodiles eyeing a wildebeest at the watering hole, or like Brad Wesley looking at literally anything at any point in the whole movie. The cooler discovers that the store has been ransacked. Frightened, he turns to the uncle of the woman he loves and says…

DALTON: What happened? Did you get robbed?

RED: Every week.

Dalton pauses to contemplate the sultry black and white photo of Red’s niece hanging on the wall next to his business license, the two cornerstones of any successful enterprise.

DALTON: So what does he take?

RED: Who?

DALTON: Brad Wesley.

RED: Ten percent—to start. Oh it’s it’s all legal-like. He formed “The Jasper Improvement Society.” All the businesses in town belong to it.

DALTON: Everybody pay?

RED: [LOWERS SHADES TO LOOK YOU DEAD IN THE EYE] Does a hobbyhorse have a wooden dick?

Oh it’s all aphorism-like. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” “Is the Pope Catholic?” This is supposed to be a question like that, one that all but answers itself in the affirmative and in so doing illustrates how obvious the answer was to begin with. But, and perhaps you’ve already seen the issue here, there’s one important difference between those sayings and this one.

Does a bear shit in the woods? Yes, that’s where bears shit.

Is the Pope Catholic? Yes, the Holy Father is a member in good standing of the Roman Catholic Church.

Does a hobbyhorse have a wooden dick?

No. [pause for laughter] No!

The answer to “Does a hobbyhorse have a wooden dick?” is supposed to be “yes,” clearly. But no, a hobbyhorse does not have a wooden dick. I’m not sure why it would?

Nevertheless the line is uttered with such total conviction that I’ve found myself second-guessing the answer. Does a hobbyhorse have a wooden dick? Is there a black market for anatomically correct hobbyhorses of which I am unaware? Do they make the rounds on the auto-supply circuit, as gag gifts perhaps, or as a little something special out back saved for only the best customers? What does Red Webster know that I don’t? A lot, I assume. A whole lot.