Bart: One 'Mother', please.
Tattoo Guy: Wait a minute, how old are you?
Bart: Twenty one, Sir.
Tattoo Guy: Get in the chair.
Bart: Can we keep him, Dad? Please?
Homer: But he's a loser. He's pathetic. He's...
[the dog licks his face]
Homer: A Simpson.
Bart: I can't believe it, but it looks as though television has betrayed me.
[listening to Bart's class sing "Jingle Bells"]
Marge: Oh, listen to Bart. Doesn't he sound like a little angel?
Bart: Oh, Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg. The Batmobile broke it's wheel, and the Joker got aw...
[Skinner yanks him out of the choir]
Manager: Do you like kids?
Homer: What? You mean all the time? Even when they're nuts?
[the interviewer gives him a suspicious look]
Homer: Uh, I sure do.
Bart: Hey, Santa, what's shaking, Man?
Homer: [dressed as Santa] Um, what's your name, little Bart... Ner? Uh, little partner?
Bart: Hi. I'm Bart Simpson, who the hell are you?
Homer: [gritting his teeth and growling] I'm jolly old Saint Nick!
Homer: Look at this tree. Beauty, isn't it?
Patty: Why is there a bird house in it?
Homer: Er... That's an ornament.
Selma: Do I smell gun powder?
Marge: You will not be getting a tattoo for Christmas.
Homer: Yeah, if you want one, you'll have to pay for it our of your own allowance.
Bart: All right!
Homer: [answering the phone] Hello?
Patty: Is Marge there?
Homer: Who is this?
Patty: Marge, please?
Homer: This is her sister, isn't it?
Patty: May I please speak to Marge?
Homer: Whom shall I ask is calling?
Patty: Marge, please.
Homer: Now that just leaves little Maggie. Ah, a squeak toy. It says it's for dogs, but she can't read.
Bart: [upon discovering his father has taken a temporary job as a mall Santa] Dad, you must really love us to sink so low.
Homer: I don't wanna leave until our dog finishes.
[they wait five minutes]
Homer: Ah forget it, let's go.
Homer: What are the odds on Santa's Little Helper?
Clerk: 99 to 1.
Homer: Wow! You hear that, Boy? 99 times 13 equals Merry Christmas!
Homer: Did you hear that, Boy? Santa's Little Helper. It's a sign. It's an omen.
Bart: It's a coincidence, Dad.
Dr. Zitofsky: Now whatever you do boy, don't squirm. You don't want to get this sucker near your eye or your groin.
Boy: And then I want some Robotoids, and a Gook monster, and then I want a great, big...
Homer: [dressed as Santa] Ah, Son, you don't need all that junk. I'm sure you've already got something much more important: A decent home and a loving father who would do anything for you. Hey, I can't afford lunch so give me a bite of that donut.
[Bart daydreams about the mother tattoo on his arm. Marge is flattered and pleased]
Marge: Aww Bart, that's the sweetest gift a mother could ever have. It makes you look so dangerous too.
Marge: 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 2 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.
Marge: Okay, Kids, give me your letters and I'll mail them to Santa at the North Pole.
Bart: Oh please, there's only one fat guy who brings us presents and his name ain't Santa.
Bart: Come on, Dad, 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 gonna happen to us.
Homer: Okay, let's go. Who's Tiny Tim?
Marge: This is the best gift of all, Homer.
Homer: It is?
Marge: Yes, something to share our love. And to frighten prowlers.
Homer: Um Dasher, Dancer... Prancer... Nixon, Comet, Cupid... Donna Dixon?
Teacher: Sit down, Simpson.