Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire [1.01]
[Bart is singing in the church choir, so Marge cannot hear him individually]
Marge: Isn't Bart sweet, Homer? He sings like an angel.
Bart: [close up, singing] Oh, Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg. The Batmobile broke its wheel, and the Joker got away!
Bart: Aw, come on Dad, this could be the miracle that saves the Simpsons' Christmas. If TV has taught me anything, it's that miracles always happen to poor kids at Christmas. It happened to Tiny Tim, it happened to Charlie Brown, it happened to The Smurfs and it's going to happen to us.
Homer: Oh, all right. Who's Tiny Tim?
Marge: You will not be getting a tattoo for Christmas.
Homer: Yeah, if you want one you'll have to pay for it out of your own allowance.
Marge: Alright, children. Let me have those letters and I'll send them to Santa's workshop in the North Pole.
Bart: Oh please, there's only one fat guy that brings us presents and his name ain't Santa.
Marge: [writing] Dear Friends of the Simpson Family, We had some sadness and some gladness this year. First the sadness: our little cat Snowball was unexpectedly run over and went to Kitty Heaven. But we bought a new little cat, Snowball II, so I guess life goes on. Speaking of life going on, Grampa is still with us, feisty as ever. Maggie is walking by herself, Lisa got straight A's and Bart... well, we love Bart. The magic of the season has touched us all. Homer sends his love. Happy Holidays, The Simpsons.
Tattoo Removal Technician: [turning on laser] Now whatever you do boy, don't squirm. You don't want to get this sucker near your eye or groin.
Bart: Hey Santa, what's shakin' man?
Homer (as Santa): What's your name, Bart-ner... er... little partner?
Bart: I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?
Homer: [annoyed] I'm Jolly ol' Saint Nick.
Bart: Oh yeah? We'll see about that! [Pulls off his fake beard]
Bart: Dad, you must really love us to sink so low.
Homer: Thirteen bucks? Hey, wait a minute!
Clerk: That's right. One hundred and twenty dollars gross, less social security, less unemployment insurance, less Santa training, less costume purchase, less beard rental, less Christmas club. See you next year.
Homer: It says it's for dogs, but she can't read.
Homer: Dasher, Dancer... Prancer... Nixon, Comet, Cupid... Donna Dixon.
Marge: This is the best gift of all, Homer.
Homer: It is?
Marge: Yes, something to share our love - and frighten prowlers.
Bart: And if he runs away, he'll be easy to catch.
Homer (as Santa): [as he is walking out of his 'workshop'] Hey little kids! Santa's back! Ho! Ho! [hits his head on the doorway] D'oh! Damn it!
Simpson family: [singing] Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say...
Marge: Take it, Homer!
Homer: Err... Rudolph, get your nose over here, so you can drive my sleigh... today.
Grampa: Oh, Homer...