Moves Like Orson

I've always imagined moving like the old Orson Welles. The massive, ponderous, mastodon Welles, pacing himself, filling space with his dignified girth.
I would love to pause over a chair, trying to discern whether it was strong enough to hold me. The man exuded gravitas. Walking across a room, his significance forces itself upon you. I can hear deep grunts and heavy breathing with each step. When someone that size sighs it is as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. There is certainly solidity there, but little grace.
Now Jackie Gleason was a graceful man. He could execute a polished soft shoe, arms extended, wrists bent, eyelids cooley drooping, brows arched, moving like a slab of butter across a pond. Oh no, Jackie never grunted.
I often wonder what would happen if either man got a wedgie. Would EMS people have the tools to pry apart their cheeks? Would taxpayers have to foot the bill? Would folks in the immediate area have to be evacuated? I'm going to practice moving more deliberately and deepening my grunts. I'll do anything for respect.