How Murray Saved Christmas

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You're, uh, supposed to point it

away from your face.

Ho ho! Don't worry, son.

I'm perfectly schnibble

and ready to glibble.

- You're starting to dribble.

- Really?

All of the toys

fell out of the sled.

And they bounced one by one

off of poor Santa's head.

Mama!

Gah!

Oh, nutmeg.

Anyone else hear that?

Hmm, it needs work.

Globble, glibble, ish,

kibibble. Hee hee!

Mmm!

Appetite... Good.

When someone is having

a less than a jolly day,

they call on this man.

His name is Doc Holiday.

Diaper rash.

- Ooh! Ooh!

- Seasickness.

I'm under such pressure

to see my shadow

and get winter over already.

What if I don't see it?

I mean, should I lie?

Diaper rash.

- Aah! No...

- Claus-trophobia.

One year I was certain

I saw my shadow,

but it turned out to be

an oil stain on the pavement.

I cannot tell a lie.

Ha ha. You're fat.

I'm a rodent,

not a meteorologist.

Uh, diaper rash.

Uh, how's it look, Doc?

Would you like to hear

the bad news first?

I'd rather hear the good news.

Oh, I didn't say

there's good news.

Heh heh. In layman's terms,

Santa Claus is suffering from...

Superficial fractures of

his little baby toeses.

His ears moved south

and now his mouth is pushed up

where his nose is.

I'm prescribing aspirin

in super megadoses

for superficial fractures of his wittle,

bitty toeses.

Where exactly did

you go to med school?

Colombia.

Bogota, Colombia.

He's got inflammation and abrasions,

bruises and contusions,

spinal fusion, great confusion

marked by weird delusions.

I'm a pretty little girl.

My mommy calls me Susan.

Inflammation and abrasions,

bruises and contusions.

Doc Holiday

never cured anything.

But you had to admit,

the guy sure loved to sing.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!

Oy!

Stop. Stop!

This is terrible!

I didn't mean

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