Craig Jones:
About a year ago, my pops quit his dog-catching job and went into business with my uncle Elroy. They ran this spot called Brothers Barbecue. Taste so good, make you wanna slap yo' mama. You might have seen the commercial.
Uncle Elroy:
Ya'll tired of eatin' that barbecue from up the street? Where they give you more sauce than they give you meat? Then bring your big ass down to Bros. Barbecue, 15837 South Crenshaw Boulevard, that's right off Manchester. Bros. Barbecue, tastes so good, make you wanna slap yo' mama! Don't it, Willie?
Mr. Jones:
Yeah, boy! Hey, mama?
Grandma Jones:
What the hell you want, Willie? [Willie slaps her]
Uncle Elroy:
Ain't but one location, so it's nearest you.
Craig Jones:
You might have missed it. They only had enough money for a 15-second spot. Well, my pops hooked us up with a job as Christmas help security.
[Freck turns on the radio]
Freck Suicide Narrator:
Charles Freck, becoming progressively more and more depressed by what was happening around him, decided, finally, to off himself. There was no problem in the circles where he hung out in putting an end to yourself. You just bought a large quantity of downers and took them with some cheap wine. The planning part had to do with the artifacts he wanted found on him by later archeologists. He had spent several days deciding, much longer than he had spent deciding to kill himself. He would be found lying on his back, on his bed, with a copy of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead and an unfinished letter to Exxon, protesting the cancellation of his gas credit card. That way, he would indite the system, and achieve something by his death, over and above what the death itself achieved. At the last moment, he changed his mind on a decisive issue and decided to drink the pills with a connoisseur wine, instead of Ripple or Thunderbird. So he set off on one last drive, over to Tiny's Liquors, which specialized in fine wines, and bought a bottle of 2001 Azalea Springs Merlot, which set him back almost seventy dollars. Back home again, he uncorked the wine, let it breathe, drank a few glasses of it, tried to think of something meaningful but could not, and then, with a glass of Merlot, gulped down all the pills at once. However, he had been burned. Instead of quietly suffocating, Charles Freck began to hallucinate. The next thing he knew, a creature from between dimensions was standing beside his bed, looking down at him disapprovingly.
Freck:
You gonna read me my sins? [Creature nods]
Freck:
Eh, it's gonna take a hundred thousand hours.
Creature:
Your sins will be read to you ceaselessly, in shifts, throughout eternity. The list will never end.
Creature:
[starts reading] "The Sins of Freck"
Freck Suicide Narrator:
Charles Freck wished he could take back the last half hour of his life.
Creature:
[Creature continues to read] "... theft of fingernail clippers...” "... you did knowingly and with malice...” "... punched your baby sister, Evelyn...” "... December, theft of Christmas presents...” "... one billion lies...”
Freck Suicide Narrator:
One thousand years later, they had reached the sixth grade, the year he had discovered masturbation.
Creature:
[Creature continues to read] "... November fourteenth, Percodan... Vicodin... Cocaine...”
Freck Suicide Narrator:
Charles Freck thought, "At least I got a good wine."
[Karl has given Sarah a lift home after the Christmas party. They are standing on her doorstep]
Karl:
Well, I-I'd better go.
Sarah:
Okay.
Karl:
Goodnight.
Sarah:
Goodnight. [he gives her a quick peck on the cheek, then they begin to kiss passionately]
Karl:
Actually, I don't *have* to go.
Sarah:
Right. Good.
Karl:
I mean...
Sarah:
No-no that's good. Just, um, would you excuse me for one second? Just...
Karl:
Sure. [she moves round the corner, out of sight of Karl, dances a little jig for joy, then returns]
Sarah:
Um, okay, that's done. Um, why don't you come upstairs in about ten seconds.
The Grinch:
That's what it's all about, isn't it? That's what it's always been *about*. Gifts, gifts... gifts, gifts, gifts, gifts, gifts. You wanna know what happens to your gifts? They all come to me. In your garbage. You see what I'm saying? In your *garbage*. I could hang myself with all the bad Christmas neckties I found at the dump. And the avarice... [shouts]
The Grinch:
The avarice never ends! "I want golf clubs. I want diamonds. I want a pony so I can ride it twice, get bored and sell it to make glue." Look, I don't wanna make waves, but this *whole* Christmas season is [shouts]
The Grinch:
stupid, stupid, stupid!
As a convinced atheist, I ought to agree with Voltaire that Judaism is not just one more religion, but in its way the root of religious evil. Without the stern, joyless rabbis and their 613 dour prohibitions, we might have avoided the whole nightmare of the Old Testament, and the brutal, crude wrenching of that into prophecy-derived Christianity, and the later plagiarism and mutation of Judaism and Christianity into the various rival forms of Islam. Much of the time, I do concur with Voltaire, but not without acknowledging that Judaism is dialectical. There is, after all, a specifically Jewish version of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, with a specifically Jewish name
Bartleby:
You are responsible for raising an icon which draws worship from the Lord. You have broken the first commandment. Not only that, I'm afraid not a one of you passes for a decent human being. Your continued existence is a mockery of morality. Like you, Mr. Burton. Last year cheated on your wife of 17 years 8 times. You even had sex with her best friend while you were supposed to be home watching the kids.
Loki:
In the bed that you and your wife share, no less.
Bartleby:
Mr. Newman - you got your girlfriend drunk at last year's Christmas party and then paid a kid from the mail room to have sex with her while she was passed out, just so you could break up with her guilt-free when she sobbingly confessed in the morning. She killed herself two months later. Mr. Brace disowned his gay son. Very compassionate, Mr. Brace. Mr. Ray put his mother in a third-rate nursing home and then used the profits from the sale of her home to buy an oriental rug for himself. Heavens. Mr. Barker flew to Thailand on the company account to have sex with an eleven year old boy. Mr. Holtzman okayed the production of Mooby Dolls from materials he knew to be toxic and unsafe, because it was - survey says? - less costly. [sees the female board member]
Bartleby:
You, on the other hand, are an innocent. You lead a good life. Good for you. But you, Mr. Whitland, you have more skeletons in your closet than the rest of this assembled party. I cannot even mention them aloud. [whispers something in Whitland's ear]
Loki:
You're his father, you sick fuck. [Whitland starts crying]
Judge:
George Jung, you stand accused of possession of six hundred and sixty pounds of marijuana with intent to distribute. How do you plead?
George:
Your honor, I'd like to say a few words to the court if I may.
Judge:
Well, you're gonna have to stop slouching and stand up to address this court, sir.
George:
[stands] Alright. Well, in all honesty, I don't feel that what I've done is a crime. And I think it's illogical and irresponsible for you to sentence me to prison. Because, when you think about it, what did I really do? I crossed an imaginary line with a bunch of plants. I mean, you say I'm an outlaw, you say I'm a thief, but where's the Christmas dinner for the people on relief? Huh? You say you're looking for someone who's never weak but always strong, to gather flowers constantly whether you are right or wrong, someone to open each and every door, but it ain't me, babe, huh? No, no, no, it ain't me, babe. It ain't me you're looking for, babe. You follow?
Judge:
Yeah... Gosh, you know, your concepts are really interesting, Mister Jung.
George:
Thank you.
Judge:
Unfortunately for you, the line you crossed was real and the plants you brought with you were illegal, so your bail is twenty thousand dollars.
It is the fate of great achievements, born from a way of life that sets truth before security, to be gobbled up by you and excreted in the form of shit. For centuries great, brave, lonely men have been telling you what to do. Time and again you have corrupted, diminished and demolished their teachings; time and again you have been captivated by their weakest points, taken not the great truth, but some trifling error as your guiding principal. This, little man, is what you have done with Christianity, with the doctrine of sovereign people, with socialism, with everything you touch. Why, you ask, do you do this? I don't believe you really want an answer. When you hear the truth you'll cry bloody murder, or commit it.
