Story #1
Written By Little Moults
Pentiction 2002, I could probably finish the story there and you would all know what I'm talking about, but for the sake of reminiscence and laughter, here she goes. The group of Big Moults (Rob, Mike, Damian, Kuzek) and the group of Little Moults (Dave, Button, Jay, Justin) coalesced in the Canadian sin-city with one activity in mind: Beach Party on Skaha. Well, let me tell you something about beach parties, particularily in Pentiction. When planning your booze, you have to think practical. You can't be walking up a public beach with a case of beer in hand. The remedy? Put all your eggs in one discreet basket. Rob's eggs? Pure Alberta Vodka. Rob's Baskets? ( 2 in this case) his belly (before the beach) and a great big bottle of Safeway Select clam tomato cocktail with a twist of tomato curdle. Around dusk, the convoy of us all, led by the wolf like howl at scantily clad women by Rob, ventured up the road in pursuit of the gigantic bonfire. After an hour or two of drink, mingle, drink, mingle, I turned my attention to what I thought was an injured baby giraffe with a bad case of nausea down by the water. What was it you ask? Big Moults of course, attempting to embark on the journey back to the motel on all fours. I approached him and asked him where the hell he thought he was going, to which he replied:
"dum freger dere back goin dere Lil' Moults, I'm gonna git"
or something to that effect. I told him to wait a bit, after quite a while of crawling around in vane on Skaha beach, he gave up and joined the party. Now comes my favorite part: the actual walk home. So Rob, Jay, Button, Justin and myself all began walking back to home base, accompanied by a few lovely chiquita-mammas that decided to join us. We trekked along the boulevard with our Brave and Fearless Leader now lagging behind. As we passed a ditch beside the sidewalk, we looked back just in time to see the return of the nauseated giraffe, who managed to lose his footing and roll into the ditch, landing in the only thorn bush within a kilometre of the area! I'm not talking about your regular old Alberta thorn bush, I'm talking about a freaking porcupine bush with thorns half an inch long! Well, the rest of us guys decided to help the distressed party animal by carrying him out of the ditch and back onto the sidewalk. As we are doing so Rob is yelling at us:
"GET ME OUT OF THIS DAMN DITCH, YOU GUYS SUCK!"
Okay, now Rob is safely on the sidewalk, seemingly.
"Okay, time to go, allaboard the convoy ....................wait, nope, Rob's managed to roll back into the ditch again into the EXACT SAME thornbush!"
"GET ME OUT OF THIS DAMN DITCH! GEEZ, YOU GUYS MAKE ME SICK!"
says Rob. Okay, so we once again get him out of the thornbush, and begin walking back to the stomping grounds. By now, Big Moults is down to one sandal, and looks like he has just auditioned for "Passion of the Christ." The rest of the walk consisted of periodic profanities towards us sick pukes, and the utterly unprovoked curb-stomping of Rob's Cowboy hat. Let it be known that you can't have a drunken story without police officers involved some how. Big Moults liked to yell at the passing Pentictions finest and throw his shirt at them, ironically, an NYPD shirt. Upon reaching the motel, Big Moults grew tiresome and passed out on Button's bed, forcing Button to sleep in the truck.
The next morning, instead of wallowing in his thorny-hungover demise. Rob decided to have a little fun with his unfortunate (yet memorable) circumstance. You can tell one hell of a believable story to your friends in that condition, if they don't know what happened to you the night before. It went a little something like this:
"Hey Bransby, Kuzek and Big Mike! Guess what happened to me last night! I got put in the drunk tank with a group of natives who tried to beat me up last night. They took off their belts and started whipping me, but I managed to fight them off with my fists! I've got the wounds to back it up, but you should see them."
NO gullability required, I would have believed it too!
HAHA, Nice work boys, thats one for the history books!
Story #2
Written By Big Mike
My counterpart in the Moulton connection summed up "moults" drinking career quite nicely I must say. When most people get drunk they sometimes appear somewhat sober and collected, even though they can't see too well (trust me I hear this a lot.) Not Moults however. This drunken debauchery has the possibility of losing wallets, watches, shoes, and the ever popular shirt off his back. I think that should be a new term for drunken stupidity...
"I got so wasted I lost the shirt off my own back." It always seems to happen to Moulton.
I think I'll bring two stories together.
NEW YEARS EVE 2003
Moulton has decided that he is going to shatter his booze comsumption record by drinking a 26er of Captain Morgan Spiced in less then 3 hours.....he did it in 2...he must of had a goal in mind. As the night progressed I got obliterated as well, therefore I was told this in the morning.
Around 12 or 1 AM Rob decides to take a walk, not unusual. Story has it that he left the party and wombassed around for a while doing unknown deeds. After coming back to the party and discovering that its 3am and all his friends had vacated, Rob decides he is going to continue the party and proceeds to drink more. Now all that sounds just like a normal drunken adventure, but with one catch...Moulton managed to take some other dudes expensive boots when he went wombassing and decided to throw them away at some point. Then he walked around in socked feet for about two hours and got real bad frostbite so he could only walk on his heels for about a week or so. The next new years he ended up breaking his foot so we consider New years to be his unlucky day of the year.
SOME DAY 2000 SOMETHING....
After drinking heavily on a Saturday night at Jenny and Kendras one night, all the friends decided to hop into the famous Klement caddy for a trip...one problem..10 people don't fit in a caddy no matter how you want to go about it. Being male and all that jazz there proceeds to be a battle of the fittest where we all beat on each other for a while. As we walk down the street causing ruckus right left and centre, Moulton appears out of a bush with no shirt on once again. I don't think anything of it until I hear the uncomfortable sound of police sirens heading our way. This I must admit caused a considerable amount of grief for myself as I was the only one who could speak coherently. I looked over at Moults and realized that not only did he have no shirt on but his back was all bloody because I had sat on him earlier in the street during the battle of the fittest. I can imagine what these numerous policemen were thinking..drunk dudes not making any sense and one of them appears he has escaped from a mental institution. As one of the cops pulled out his handcuffs I hear..."Mike.." luckily one of the officers used to be my former hockey coach. Apparantly they were looking for some other rowdy dudes not us. Long story short, they thought Moults was a crack dealer due to his uncanny ability to look like one and that thank god I played hockey in my younger days.
Isn't this supposed to be a profile, not a drunken story?!?!?
Later dawgs