Bad Santa Page #6

Many, many, many|f***in' years of therapy.

Okay. You don't drink,|which is smart on your part.

But being sober can put you|at a disadvantage

when it comes to violence.

I can't box worth a sh*t, see.

But I'm good in a fight|because I can't feel anything.

You, you're gonna feel|everything.

Okay.

Now put your dukes up.|Let me see what you got.

This is bullshit!

Give me one good reason why l|should even consider doing this.

'Cause I let 2,000 kids|spit in my face for your ass.

That's why.

Now, I'm asking you|for this one thing.

Come on, look at the kid.

He is pathetic.

Yeah, he's just a little...

He's a f***ing retard.

Yeah, let's show him|a couple of things

so he can defend himself, then.

Unless you're scared.

All right,|here's what's gonna happen.

Marcus is a bully, right?

He's gonna pull your underwear|up out of your pants.

Now, what do you do?

I don't know.

God damn it!|You don't know?

If somebody wants to pull your|underwear up out of your pants,

you have to get mad.

Yeah, kid, come on.|Get mad.

Scream at him.

Jesus f***ing Christ.

Listen at him.|He's a f***ing f*ggot.

Loud! Scream!

Be loud! Be mean!

Piss him off!|Come on!

Aah!

You don't|hit people in the balls,

you a**hole!

Aah!

What the f***'s wrong with you?|He's just a kid.

-F*** you, Willie!|-Ow!

God damn it.

I told you|I didn't want to do this!

Making me...|Ohh!

Oh, sh*t.

Kid, maybe you shouldn't spend|so much time around me.

You sneaky little prick.

F*** you!|Little bastard!

Get off me!

Shut up. That's not even|what you said.

Oh, God damn it,|I forgot about that.

We got a f***ing nursing home|around here.

Well, we can go in another room.

She does look kind of still,|doesn't she?

Hey, Granny?

Hey, Granny.

Hey, there, Granny?

Oh, Granny.

Oh, my God.

What the f***?

Oh, sh*t.

-Roger!|-God!

-God damn it! Sh*t!|-You're home.

-Please just tap me.|-Let me fix some sandwiches.

Hello, little boy.

Hello.|Santa...

I know that Christmas Eve|is in a couple days,

and you have to fly around|the world

and give presents to everyone,|and you won't be around anymore.

Yeah?

So I thought I'd give you|your present now.

What the f*** is it?

It's a wooden pickle.

-Why'd you paint it brown?|-It's not paint.

It's blood from when I cut|my hand making it for you.

Oh.

Well, sh*t, kid, I don't know.

I...

Thanks.

You're welcome.

Good night, Santa.

Good night, Mrs. Santa's sister.

Good night, sweetie.

Oh, my God.

That was so sweet.

He's a really sweet kid,|isn't he?

Yeah, I guess so.

Come on, baby.

Come here.

What?

Oh, nothing.|I'm all right.

Just a little tired.

Oh.

Santa!

God damn it!|Whoa! Sh*t!

Want to see my report card?

You scared the holy sh*t|out of me.

Think I did good?

How would I know? I haven't seen|the f***in' thing yet.

Who the f*** is Thurman?

-Is your name Thurman?|-Yeah.

Thurman Merman?

Yeah.

Jesus.

So, you think I did good?

What do you care|what I think, anyway?

Hell, I guess you did better|than I did.

I never got any B's.

I thought maybe at least|since I did good in school,

maybe you'd bring me a present.

'Cause last year|and the year before that,

you didn't bring me|any presents.

Even though I'm a dipshit loser.

Jesus f***ing Christ, kid!

Why do you talk about|yourself that way?!

Let me give you some news.|I'm not Santa Claus, all right?

Take a look at me.|Do I look like Santa Claus?

As a matter of fact,|I'm living f***ing proof

that there's not a Santa Claus.

I know there's no Santa.

I just thought maybe you'd|want to give me a present

'cause we're friends.

There he is.

That lousy, leather-faced,|frog-eyed, motherf***er.

-Good night, Gin.|-Good night.

Jesus, Mother Mary, and Joseph.

What is the problem now?

I'm sorry.|The van stalled.

Will you give us a jump, please?

I'll be dipped in dog sh*t.

Do I look like|an auto mechanic to you?

I appreciate it.

All right, small fry,|help yourself.

I can't reach it.

Jesus Christ, give me that.

Thanks.

All right, hit it.

Oh, my.|What a terrible accident.

Mm-mm-mmm.

-Is he dead?|-No.

But it looks like|you broke most of his ribs.

I'd say maybe 50% of them,|or do you think 30%?

I needed more|of a running start.

I couldn't build up|enough speed.

Merry Christmas Eve.

Got you a little something.

You shouldn't have.

You should put that stuff|in the kitchen.

God damn, you look good.

Here you go.

Little behind there, sweetie?

We don't need any more|of this sh*t.

"Christmas keeps us connected|to each other in peace.

The angel is going to tell|everyone in the world."

Aspirin?

As in olden days

Happy golden days of yore

Faithful friends|who are dear to us

Gather near to us once more

Through the years,|we all will be together

If the fates allow

Until then, we'll have to|muddle through somehow

So have yourself|a merry little Christmas now

Through the years,|we all will be together

If the fates allow

Hang a shining star|upon the highest bough

And have yourself

A merry little Christmas

Now

Sh*t!

Jesus.

Santa?

-What?|-I was gonna make sandwiches.

I could make you one|before you leave.

Listen, kid, I don't know.

I got sh*t to do and everything.

Okay, make me some sandwiches.

I gotta go to the mall|and talk to somebody.

I'll be back.

For dinner?

Yeah, that's what I said.|Yeah.

How many sandwiches do you want?

Uh, a bunch.

How much lettuce do you want?

I don't know.|The usual amount.

Whatever the hell people do.|Whatever you think.

Okay.

Have a very merry Christmas.

-Merry Christmas.|-Good night.

Merry Christmas.

Good night.

-Good night.|-Okay! Happy holiday!

Attention, shoppers.

The store will be closing|in five minutes.

We wish you all|a merry Christmas,

a happy Hanukkah,|and a joyous Kwanzaa.

All right, hold it steady.

Oh, yeah, sh*t, let's do it.

Oh, Christ.

Merry Christmas.

Good night.

Merry Christmas, Willie.

Up your ass.

Aaaah!

Whoa!

Oh, sh*t.

What?

What?

It's a Kitnerboy Redoubt.

So?

Remember Andy Pitz?

Andy Pitzorella?|Yeah.

No, Andy Ripitski.

Andy Pitzorella|was Andy Blue Balls.

Since he got married,|they call him Andy Pitzorella.

What's your f***ing point?!

They say he can get|into anything.

Anything.

They say he's been|in Margaret Thatcher's p*ssy.

And that's a good thing?

So what the f***|are you getting at?

When I was|in the joint with him,

he told me that the Kitnerboy|Redoubt can't be cracked.

Are you shittin' me?

Are you telling me|that after I propped you up,

held you together,|smiled for all those kids,

danced for all those|f***ing housewives

in a f***ing lime-green,|f***ing velvet elf costume,

that you cannot|get in this f***ing safe?!

Is that what you're|telling me?! Huh?!

No, I'm just saying|it's gonna take a minute.

F***.

Sh*t.

F***!

Piece of cake.

I gotta get one more thing.|I'll be right back.

Oh, sh*t.|Which one did he say?

I'll bet the store dick|don't want this.

Store dick don't want sh*t.

What do you mean?

Store dick's dead.

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