How Fat Does Someone Have To Be Before It Doesn't Make Sense For Them To Move Out Of The Way When They're Blocking A Train Door?

This question has been haunting The Baron for so long that it seems like exactly 2 days. It started last Saturday when returning from a battle against alcohol in Boston's stereotypically Italian district.

The Baron decided upon the green line as his mode of transportation. This is the train that looks like a bus on rails and handles like a shopping cart. In addition, it's always full of douchebags and fuckwits. But, The Baron was lazy, and also slightly drunk so he climbed on board.

There was the usual preponderance of assmasters falling all over themselves and laughing in a way that let The Baron know they considered the inability to hold onto a handrail to be charming and / or cheeky. The number of times The Baron almost vomited at the content of their conversations reached nearly a baker's dozen in the time it took that creaky cunt-box to traverse two stations. Conversations such as:

"Ah, like, I totally want to move to California."

and

"You know what? I feel like I'd fit in better in California.'

and of course the

"I decided right then and there, in LAX, that I'd move to California if I got a chance because the airport was hella cool."

The Baron's weiner shudders to think of it even now, but, this cursed trip would ignite one of the most poignant philosophical debates The Baron would ever have with himself:

"When is a fat person, so fat that it doesn't make sense for them to move out of the train door because they're only going to block up another part of the train and / or they can't physically get out of the way because of the constraints of modern public transportation."

The topic arose as The Baron prepared to debark from the vehicle and found himself hemmed into a corner by a woman at least 5 feet in girth. Her docile expression told The Baron he had nothing to fear in terms of being eaten alive, but this fact did not facilitate his getting the fuck out of the rolling box of shitfucks.

She stood there implacably, not even making an attempt to move to the side as a sea of clutching fuckholes surged around her. The Baron finally managed to squeeze by, but his shirt became transparent from the grease that rubbed off of this Leviathan.

Could she have moved out of the way?

It was a more challenging question than The Baron could ever have imagined and it would consume his entire Sunday. After hours of intense cogitating, he finally came up with this equation to decide whether a fat person should move out of the way of an open train door. Behold!

X = (D x A)/ (W x G x C)

Where D is the width of the door in fathoms,
A is the assmaster titer in cringe units,
W is the width of the fatty in cubits,
G is the greasiness of said fatty in McD's
and C is the crowding of the train car in BMU's (Baron Murderousness Units).

If X is greater than 1, the walking lipid repository should move his / her ponderous ass.

If X is less than 1, it should stay put because moving will have no appreciable impact on how fast The Baron can exit the train car.

Finally someone's putting math to good use right?