[Joel and the bots sing "Let's Have A Patrick Swayze Christmas."]
Tom Servo: [singing] Open up your heart and let the Patrick Swayze Christmas in.
Crow T. Robot: [singing] We'll gather at the roadhouse with our next of kin.
Joel Robinson: [singing] And Santa will be our regular Saturday night thing.
Tom Servo: [singing] Oh, let's have a Patrick Swayze Christmas this year.
Crow T. Robot: [singing] Or we'll tear your throat out and kick you in the ear.
Santa Claus: We're going out the good ol' fashioned way with my reindeers!
Joel Robinson: Guns a-blazin'!
Santa Claus: Prancer and Dancer and Donder and Blitzen, and Vixen and Nixon!
Tom Servo: Eh, yeah, so, what's in the pipe, Santa?
Martian: What is Christmas?
Joel: It's a Christian holiday ruined by commercialism.
Tom Servo: [singing along with the song "Hooray for Santa Claus"] S-A-T-A-N, I mean S-A-N-T-A. Hooray for Santy Claus.
Andy Henderson: Hi, Santa.
Crow T. Robot: Get the hell out of my shop.
[Tom's poem, "A Child's Christmas in Space"]
Tom Servo: It's quiet in the cold of our own little orbit, starless and Bible black. And as I look down on the big blue beam we would call home I think it so near, yet... oh, I wish on that star and I hope that in a little snow-covered house with a warm hearth and a loving family, maybe some kid is looking up tonight and wishing upon us. Oh, and how I hope sweet Santa will fly by tonight because if he does I'm gonna reach right out and hug that big guy. Oh, for the sound of hooves against the steel hull of the ship. Oh, to see the rosy face of Santa in the portal offering me a Coke and a smile...
[gradually gets more and more upset and hysterical]
Tom Servo: ...of course, his cheeks would be rosy because there's a vacuum out there, I mean Santa's heart would explode. But he wouldn't feel it because the capillaries in his brain would pop like little firecrackers...
Tom Servo: ...due to the blood boiling away in his face like pudding in a copper... OH THE HUMANITY.
Tom Servo: And his jolly old belly would start bubbling like a roasted marshmallow, eyes bulging and popping out... AND THE REINDEER - OH THE REINDEER. - keep floating like holiday floats and in turn exploding in a hail of blood and entrails. Prancer - BOOM. Dancer - BOOM.
Crow T. Robot: Tom.
Joel: Tom take it easy, Santa's gonna be okay, buddy.
Tom Servo: You sure?
Joel: Yeah, give him a little credit, okay?
Tom Servo: Phew, what a relief.
Crow T. Robot: Sorry, I was with... Mmm. Alright uh, okay. "A Christmas Editorial" by Crow T. Robot. Uh, I know I already said that. Um, okay. What's the big deal with Santa's elves, anyway? What happens to all those dumb, wooden trains and horses and cars? No... ever kid gets 'em. These are the kind of toys Grandma drags out at Christmas to decorate the house, which smells like her feet no matter how much Essence of Yuletide Lightbulb Rain Wash she uses. Uh, but I digress. Um, uh... No, these are the real misfit toys. They end up in Marshall Fields window displays and F.A.O. Schwarz catalogs or in overpriced little gift shops in Vermont or Door County, Wisconsin. Ahem. My, my message is for the elves. Gentlemen, what is the problem? Why don't we ever see you in front of a circuit board loading microchips into a Segavision with your little wooden hammers? Elf labor short? The good people of Macow are eager to take your prototypes and turn them into 100,000 knock-offs. Elves and Santa, take an example from the Keeblers. Now there's some fairies who know how to market! In closing uh, step out of the legend days, fellas, and join the century of the Pacific. Oh, and uh, Merry Christmas.