The greatest advancement for modern man is the appreciation of the sexiness of dad bods.

Face it, not many of us are going to discover our inner Chris “Thor” Hemsworth beneath all our layers of daddliness. Instead of “six-pack” abs, most of us sprout bellies sculpted more along the lines of a milk jug. Or a keg. Or barrel.

The New York Post reported that in a survey of 2,000 people by Dating.com, nearly 75 percent of singles are more turned on by a dad bod — “think paunchy and pec-less” — than any other body type.

How in the name of Jason Momoa can this be?

According to Planet Fitness, the dad bod is built of both muscle and heart. It indicates a man who values family and humor over iron plates and workouts.

Well, let me tell you, if you think a dad bod is great, then mine is grand — a grandpa bod, that is.

Pleasantly plush grandpa bods are even less likely than dad bods to run away from home to train for triathlons.

When you graduate to a grandpa bod, your body becomes its own marching band. It snaps, crackles and pops like a percussion section laying down the beat for the chorus of moans, groans and grumbles. Your body even toots its own horn while parading down the hall, if you catch my drift. (I hope you don’t. Stay upwind).

Guys with dad bods are perceived as more likely than Dave Bautista types to roll on the floor and tussle with the kids.

We grandpa bods don’t fear the floor either — as long as the grandkids are big enough to help us back up. Otherwise, we claw our way across the carpet until we reach a chair or floor lamp we can use to pull ourselves back to our feet, while our personal band creaks, squeaks and possibly toots.

I’m sure that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hires a personal trainer to help him stay buffly agile. The family cat acts as my trainer. She only prompts me to action when she needs a door opened or a food bowl filled. Other than that, cats can sleep up to 20 hours a day, which contributes to shaping the grandpa bod into the pleasantly puffy piece of art that it is.

Hair grows in exciting new places — pretty much anywhere except atop your head. My barber spends less time clipping my noggin in favor of shaving my eyebrows and ears. I don’t let her see my toes.

Gravity exerts its pull. My shoulders curl, my knees buckle and my brawny chest, along with all the chest hair I had hoped to grow, migrated to my belly.

So what? The best part of earning grandpa bod status is not particularly caring anymore what anyone else thinks. We’ve finally learned what that 1960s expression “Let it all hang out” means. We’re good with it.

One of the greatest features of the grandpa bod is improved hearing. Oh, we definitely hear fewer sounds than we did before (stop mumbling and turn up the TV). But no one any longer questions your male selective hearing.

“It’s his age,” they say.

I love the age excuse. I don’t even have to say it myself.

“Oh, Burt, let a couple of the boys move the couch. At your age, you’ll hurt something.” So I sit on the couch and wait for the youngsters to move it with me on it.

That’s another benefit of a grandpa bod distinction — anyone who looks like us is expected to be cantankerous. We don’t have to pretend to be polite anymore.

So, all you toned and chiseled kids, get off my lawn! I’m rockin’ the grandpa bod, and that’s just downright sexy — in a creased, crinkled and crabby sort of way.

• Ogle Grandpa Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com, the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook or www.burtonwcole.com.