Guess what? You're all fired. Merry Christmas, bitches.
You people have been swimming in my wake for way, way too many years now, and it's time I set you straight. You jack-offs make fun of me when I try to put a Christmas pageant together and then act like a tree makeover and a little off-key caroling at the end is going to patch things up. You know what? Screw you people. I can replace every one of you. It's time you learned that little lesson. I am the only star in this mess. I'm the only one with any negotiating power.
That goes double for you, Snoopy. You think you're special because you got a Macy's float? My aching ass. You know how many Lassie's there were? I can bury you in the backyard and have a replacement beagle doing your happy dance with his water dish today. You want to try me? You feel strong? I'll take a hammer to you. I don't care anymore.
The rest of you are going to be hired back as temps. No benefits. No bonuses. And any one of you could be waiting tables at the Burbank Chuck E. Cheese by the time I finish my spa treatment. Get used to it.
Except for Lucy. You know what it means to be tricked into kicking a football and doing a backflip onto the asphalt three times a month? It means you're kicking a Percodan addiction when you're seven years old. Thanks for that. You're gone. Marcie is doing your lines, and you're gonna pull a Shannen Doherty. You'll be crapped out of the porn industry within two years. Mark. My. Word.
It's not called "Merry Christmas, Schroeder," jerkwads. You're going to show some goddamn respect, or I will put an end to every one of you.
Hey, Linus. Get me my fuckin' latte.