Man, forbear such wicked words

Having collapsed from the reeling visions of disturbing memories brought to him by the Ghost of Christmas Past, Atown-Liker has awoken from a deep sleep and found himself back in Scrooge's chambers. The room is dark except for a strange light emanating from under the door to the next room. Scrooge gets out of bed and carefully makes his way to the door and peeks in, ready for anything from a baby to rhinoceros.


The room has undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling are hung with living green with bright gleaming berries and crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy. A mighty blaze roars up the chimney. Piled on the floor, to form a kind of throne, are turkeys, geese, game, poultry, great joints of meat, suckling-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. Right in front is an ice cold case of Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale.

On the couch sits a jolly giant, glorious to see; he is surrounded by cleaning supplies, buckets, mops and rags of all shapes and sizes. He has a glowing torch shaped like Plenty's horn, which holds up high, shedding its light on Atown-Liker, as he comes peeping around the door. It is Mr. Clean!

Holy crap! Look at all this food and booze!

Come in! Come in, and know me better, man. Have a brewskie!

Don't mind if I do! Toss me one a them chorizos, would ya?

Absolutely. ... I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me.

You're Mr. Clean... in a Santa cap.

You have never seen the likes of me before.

Never. ... Spirit, conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learned a lesson which is working now. Tonight, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it.

Touch my mop. And grab a couple of those beers for the road.

My word! We are flying over the city! Oops! I dropped a drumstick.

We are flying indeed. I could point out several examples of the pervasive social injustices prevalent in Dickensian London, but you probably wouldn't be interested.

You're right! ... Where are we now? I don't know this crappy house. What a dump!

We are at the home of your clerk, Bob Cratchit.

Oh, you're home, my dears.

I had a lovely time at church, Mother, and after, I watched the other children play as my leg festered!

What fun you must have had! Now sit by the fire, Tim, and warm yourself. ... Bob, how did little Tim behave at church?


As good as gold ... and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He believes there is a place called Parallel Time, where everything is so much nicer. He said there were homicidal celebrity chefs there and something called a monorail! Then he told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see. ... And he kept staring at the crows.

Kid sounds a little cuckoo. ... You bring the opener, dude?

Here. Shhh.

... He's growing strong and hearty, my dear.

Of course he is, dear.

Holy bullshit meter, Batman! Are they lookin' at the same kid I am? He looks like hell. ... Is he even gonna make it?

I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved.


I didn't ask you about his stupid crutch.


If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die. Is that clear enough for you? Dumb ass.


Well, that would sorta suck.


If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race will find him here. What then? If he be like to die, he had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.


But he's not from New Jersey!



Man, forbear such wicked words until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you -- a Phillies fan -- are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child.


Yeah, right. That'll happen.


... A toast! To Mr. Scrooge. I give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!


The Founder of the Feast indeed! I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it.


Bring it, beeyotch! Oh, you don't want any of this.


Shut up. She can't hear you anyway.


My dear ... the children. Christmas Day.


It should be Christmas Day, I am sure on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling little shit as Mr Scrooge. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow.


My dear. ... Christmas Day.


Fine. I'll drink his health for your sake and the Day's, not for his. Long life to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt! ... A-hole! ... God bless us!



God bless us, every one.


I've seen enough.


Let's us see another Christmas! ... This is the home of your nephew, Fred!


No Fred. He's not in this version! Did no one get the freakin' memo?



Well, that's actually quite disappointing. I like that part. Good party scene. ... So let us see Christmas Day at a poor miners camp.


I have an idea! ... Let's not.


A light house?


Booooring!



A ship at sea?


Hmmm. Let me think. ... NO!


OK, then I guess we oughtta wrap this up. You've ascertained that poor Tiny Tim has, like, one foot in the grave and his family can't afford to care for him, right? And there's no public option and no Obama to help him.


Yeah. I picked up on that. Hey, you don't look so good yourself.



My life upon this globe, is very brief. It ends tonight, at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near.


Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask, but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?


Are you flirting with me?


In your dreams, Kojack.


Look here. Look, down here!




Are these wretched children yours? Did they ever hear of soap?


They are Man's. And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This girl is Ignorance. This boy is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this girl, for on her brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it! Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end."



Have they no refuge?

Send them to a homeless shelter. Get them on welfare. Have them fake a disbility. Unemployment, food stamps, jail, whatever. POOF!

Oh, use my own words against me. Nice guy. I should call the county on you and those damn kids. ... Now he disappears. Wuss! These spirits are a bunch of jerks. ... Hey, those little brats took all my beer!