Tiny Tim: [Crawls into tight hiding spot] [To himself] I should be safe in here.
Mrs. Cratchit: [Driving cleaning lady to her next gig] Sheesh, what’s that awful smell?
Cleaning lady: Factory? The car?
Mrs. Cratchit: It smells like burning. It gets worse every time we go around a corner.
Scenes II, III, IV
(yadda, yadda, yadda)
Bob Cratchit: [We are outside the bathroom, he is inside.] Ow.
Bob Cratchit: [Same location] Ow, my head. [Sound effects: Retroperistalsis]
Bob Cratchit: [We are now inside the bathroom with Mr. Cratchit] [Sighs] [Sound effects: gurgling intestines] Ow, yet fascinating.
Mrs. Cratchit: [Street scene] How do you open the hood, anyhow?
Bob Cratchit: [Struggles impotently with giant pine tree wrapped tightly in netting. Looks at base of tree, realizes it is way to fat to fit into Christmas tree stand] Sigh.
Bob Cratchit: [Drinks aspirin drink. Arranges tools beside tree on picnic table: saws, chisel, mallet. Looks at axe, has vision of chopped-off fingers and spurting arterial blood, sets it back down.] Not with this residual blood alcohol. [Begins chipping away at trunk of tree with chisel]
Bob Cratchit: [Places tree in living room, cuts away the plastic netting. The tree is about two feet too high for the ceiling. He clips off the tip, which is too fat to fit inside the ornament that traditionally goes atop the tree. He steps back and regards the tree, which resembles Olive Oyl wearing a crinoline dress and stretching out her arms] Next year, I must buy a tree earlier.
Tiny Tim: [From hiding place] Meow.
Mrs. Cratchit: Ohmigod.
Tiny Tim: [Crawls from underneath hood of Mrs. Cratchit's automobile, his fur badly singed on all sides, eyebrows and whiskers included.] Meow.
Cleaning lady: Whoa.
Mrs. Cratchit’s friend: I’ll bring you a cat transporter.
[In the Cratchits' living room, which now smells like pine tree and singed cat]
Mrs. Cratchit: [sorting through Christmas ornaments] The vet said he’d be in shock for a while.
Bob Cratchit: I really should have gone tree-shopping earlier.
Mrs. Cratchit: It’s fine. It’s a nice tree.
Bob Cratchit: You’re too kind.
Mrs. Cratchit: The vet didn’t even charge me anything. Here, gold, silver, blue, purple but not so much red this year, okay?
Bob Cratchit: Okay.
Mrs. Cratchit: And I still need you to put the fiddly little hooks on all the chocolate ornaments. For some reason I bought hundreds this year.
Bob Cratchit: [Looks at huge pile of chocolate ornaments, which dance kaleidoscopically in his blurred vision, like the "bad trip" scene from a cautionary late-1960s anti-LSD movie.] Okay.
Bob Cratchit: [Begins hanging ornaments from tree, one by one.]
Mrs. Cratchit: And I like the red star atop the tree. We don’t always have to have that other thing.
Bob Cratchit: The red star does have an appealing communist look to it, doesn’t it.
Mrs. Cratchit: Maybe we’ll use it every year from now on.
Bob Cratchit: I wonder if you can get little hammer and sickle ornaments to go with it.
Mrs. Cratchit: Well, I’m off to do some shopping or something.
Scenes 2, 3, 4, 5
yadda, yadda, yadda
Bob Cratchit: [Pets Tiny Tim, carefully.] What the hell were you thinking?
Bob Cratchit: [Pets Tiny Tim, carefully]
Bob Cratchit: [Regards tree, now fully decorated] She’s right, it’s not that bad after all.
Bob Cratchit: Sorry, Tim, the vet said we can’t let you out for a few days. You’ll have to go on your litter box.
Tiny Tim: God bless us, everyone.