Out Cold

Hey, everybody.

Welcome to Bull Mountain...

a slice of heaven...

nestled in the cleavage of Alaska's high country.

It all started when a young buck named Herbert Muntz...

saw the promise of a new life...

and staked his claim to it the old-fashioned way:

he stole it from the Eskimos.

'Round these parts, he became known as "Papa."

Each year, Papa would say thank you...

by droppin' his britches...

and blazing down that mountain bare-assed...

in one of his famous moonshine runs.

Papa loved to ski...

and Papa loved to drink...

but most of all, Papa loved to ski and drink...

at the same time.

Last year, he died with his boots on...

Bull Mountain, don't go changin'!

And not much else.

Nowadays, Papa's boy runs the mountain.

But us locals still carry on the free-wheelin' spirit...

of Papa's life.

You could say that this mountain's a lot like a woman.

Just when you think you know every inch of her...

and you're about to dip your skis...

into some soft, deep powder--

You got two broke legs, cracked ribs...

then you pay your twenty bucks...

just to let her punch your lift ticket all over again.

News flash.

Muntz is selling the mountain.

The entire mountain?

Why would he want to get rid of this place?

I like this place exactly the way it is.

Maybe the buyer can supply...

the mountain with what it really needs--

hot friggin' chicks.

Guys, you know, more girls?

Let's give Lance a chance, all right?

I gotta refuel the tanks.

Jenny, what's going on?

Jenny!

What's up, guys?

What, are you drinking without me?

Hey, Lance.

Hey, girlfriend. What you drinkin'?

Whatever the lady would like, just put it on my tab.

I will have a beer, then.

And five shots of Goldschlager, please.

Rick, you are an idiot not to go for Jenny...

and don't give me this broken heart rigamarole.

Are you sniffing me?

There you go.

Thank you.

Man. If I was her...

I'd be gettin' with every dude on this mountain.

Hey, boys.

You're killin' me!

Cheers, everybody!

People.

And Pig Pen, my poor excuse for a brother.

Our boy Rick here...

has been bitching and moaning all week long...

I have not.

And I think it's time that we do something...

to cheer him up. Don't you agree?

Perhaps tonight is the night that we crown this year's...

King of the Mountain.

Did somebody just say...

King of the Mountain?

I know you want to defend your title.

If I must.

Good evening.

You all know the rules of King of the Mountain.

Rule number one:

you do not talk about King of the Mountain.

Rule number two: there are no rules.

What about rule number one?

That's more of a guideline than a rule.

Do not interrupt!

And now, the three-peat champion of King of the Mountain...

Rick Rambis. Richard?

Okay. Here's how it works.

Everyone must have a beer.

It's a race to the bottom.

The first one to the statue of Papa Muntz...

with the most beer in your glass, Pig Pen,

shall be proclaimed this year's King of the Mountain.

And, as an added bonus...

you also win the contents of Eric's stolen wallet...

which are, Luke?

Two bucks...

a condom...

expiration date 1997...

and a picture of his grandma--no!

That's Nancy Reagan.

But most importantly...

pushing, shoving, and cheating are encouraged.

Try not to wipe out like you did last year...

and the year before, and both years before that.

Thanks, Luke, I really appreciate that.

No problem.

Pig Pen, if you would.

Strap 'em in.

On your marks, get set--

Everybody ready?

Go!

- Suckers! - Cheater!

Not tonight, Pig Pen!

Go grand, Anthony!

Don't wipe out.

Here I come, baby!

Damn!

Coming through.

Get away from my head!

Stop!

Hey, no fair!

Nice!

Shit!

Ride 'em, cowboy!

Go!

Let's move it!

Don't let him pass!

We got him, Jenny!

Go!

Come on! We're gonna beat him!

Where did he come from?

His mug's empty.

The beer!

Beer? I got beer! I got it!

Come on!

If you haven't kissed up to the king, let me know.

Goin' to drink, everybody!

Actually, I have to turn in.

I have to give Mr. Mays a snowboard lesson.

I got fag practice in the morning, so I understand.

Walk me home, Your Highness.

Guys, stop!

If you're planning on coming up...

with some lame-ass excuse to get into my house...

just so we can "hook up"...

I might let you.

Not that you're being...

particularly charming or anything.

I guess it's the moonlight and a bottle of Goldschlager...

that just brings out the romance in a girl.

Can I ask you something?

You broke up with your boyfriend this summer, right?

Are we about to have another conversation...

about how you're still on the rebound?

I guess not.

Look, Rick, I feel for you, 'cause I've been through it...

but it's time to move on.

The general rule of thumb is one week of mourning...

for every six months you were together...

so you were together, what, two weeks?

Three weeks.

Okay. Three weeks. So, then that means--

I get it. You're right. It's stupid.

Yes, it is.

So, you still want to hook up?

You gotta try a lot harder than that, Rick.

So, you still want to hook up?

How's that?

Good night.

Good night.

- See you tomorrow. - Later.

Hey, listen.

You better enjoy your reign as King now, because next year...

I'm Queen of the Mountain, baby.

We'll see about that.

Passed out again.

Fire!

Well, boys, what's it gonna be tonight?

We gonna shave his eyebrows?

Passe. Done that, took pictures.

I'm gonna need a bucket, a paint brush...

and ten pounds of salt.

Lance, get his pants.

Where are you taking him? Come on!

Try to hold up his fat ass.

Look at him.

Shoo!

Get!

Good boy--I mean, girl.

Good girl.

My ass is numb!

Look alive, Eric.

John Majors!

Ted Muntz. It's so good to finally meet you in person.

Welcome to Bull Mountain.

The Eskimos around here have a saying--

Slow down there, Nanook.

You're gonna give yourself an aneurysm.

Will you smell that, boys?

Smells like money.

This place has got some serious potential.

I can see it now, huh? Can't you see it?

Condominiums, eateries, shopping, wine bars, cigar bars.