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Bad Santa

2003 film by Terry Zwigoff

Bad Santa is a 2003 film about a miserable con man and his partner who pose as Santa and his Little Helper to rob department stores on Christmas Eve. But they run into problems when the conman befriends a troubled kid, and the security boss discovers the plot.

Directed by Terry Zwigoff. Written by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa.
He's very naughty . . . and not very nice. (taglines)

Willie

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  • [narrating] I've been to prison once. I've been married twice. I was once drafted by Lyndon Johnson and had to live in shit-ass Mexico for two and a half years for no reason. I've had my eye socket punched in, a kidney taken out, and I got a bone-chip in my ankle that's never gonna heal. I've seen some pretty shitty situations in my life, but nothing has ever sucked more ass than this. If I'd known I was gonna have to put up with screaming brats pissing on my lap for days out of the year, I would have killed myself a long time ago. Come to think of it, I still might.
  • I said "next," goddamn it! This is not the DMV, all right? Move it along.
  • [while having sex] Yeah, baby! Yeah, baby! You ain't gonna shit right for a WEEK!
  • [to Thurman] Jesus, kid. When I was your age, I didn't need no fucking gorilla. And I wasn't as big as one of your legs. Four kids beat me up one time and I went crying home to my daddy. You know what he did? He kicked my ass. You know why? It's because he was a mean, drunk son of a bitch. And when he wasn't busy busting my ass, he was putting cigarettes out on my neck. The world ain't fair. You've gotta take what you need when you can get it. You've gotta learn to stand up for yourself. You gonna have to quit being a pussy and kick these kids in the balls or something...or don't. Shit. I don't care. Just leave me the hell out of it.
  • Wish in one hand, shit in the other and see which one fills up first.
  • [to Thurman] Thank you for giving that letter to the cops. I forgot I asked you to do it, but it's a good thing you did, or 'Santa's Little Helper' would have plugged his ass. And now the cops know I wrote it, which is gonna keep my ass out of jail. That, plus everyone agreeing that the Phoenix police department shooting an unarmed Santa was even more fucked up than Rodney King. Cops are treating me like fucking royalty, which is new in my experience. They're making me a sensitivity counselor so that tragedies like this would never again embarrass the department. Meanwhile, I told the cops that you had no one to take the fuck care of you. So they set it up with Mrs. Santa's sister until your dad gets out in one year and three months. They made her a guardian pro-temp. As for my little helper, I'm sorry to tell you that he and his prune faced, mail order wife are going to be exploring mountains with your dad. I just hope your dad doesn't go sucking shit from them like I did.
  • [in a letter to Thurman] Dear Kid, I hope that you got my present and that there wasn't too much blood on it, although there was blood on the presents you gave me, which didn't keep me from enjoying it, so maybe the blood doesn't matter so much, I guess. Just in case they took it as evidence, I'm also sending you a T-shirt. I hope it's the right size. I'm healing up good and they tell me that I will soon be 100%, even with eight bullets dug out of me cause they didn't hit any vital organs, just my liver, which is fucked anyway. Hahaha. Anyways, I told the cops you had no one to take the fuck care of you so they set it up with Ms. Santa's Sister to watch you 'til your dad gets back in one year and three months. They made her a guardian pro tem, or some such shit. Anyway, she makes better money than bartending and seems to like you, your house, and Jacuzzi. As for my little helper, I'm sorry to tell you that him and his prune-faced, mail-order wife are gonna be exploring mountains with your dad. I hope your dad doesn't go sucking shit for them like I did. Thank you for giving that letter to the cops, I forgot to ask you to do it, but it's a good thing you did or Santa's little helper would've plugged his ass, and now the cops know I wrote it, which is gonna keep my ass outta jail. That plus everyone agreeing that to Phoenix police department shooting an unarmed Santa was even more fucked up than Rodney King. Cops are treating me like fucking royalty now, which is new in my experience. They're gonna make me the sensitivity counselor, so that tragedies like this will never again embarrass the whole fucking department. Whatever. So I'll be staying in Phoenix now, telling the police how screwed up they are, which is not a bad job as jobs go. They're supposed to let me out of this hospital room soon, so I'll see you when I come over and fuck Ms. Santa's Sister in the jacuzzi. Until then, don't take no shit from nobody, least of all, yourself. Anyway, see you soon. Santa.

Marcus

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  • [to Willie] You're an emotional fucking cripple. Your soul is dog shit. Every single fucking thing about you is ugly.
  • You are by far the dumbest, most pathetic piece of maggot-eatin' shit that has every slid from a human being's hairy ass.
  • Jesus Christ! Can you maybe at least keep it together for just 10 minutes?

Gin

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  • When I look at you, you know what I think? I think America has a sad future ahead of it.

Dialogue

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[Chipeska is seen arguing with a man who had been the Chamberlain's Santa for years.]
Bob Chipeska: Harrison, will you let me explain, please? Financially--
Fired Santa: Well, you get what you paid for, Chipeska. Five Christmases I've been here, and no what. Now you flip me for some stranger who'll do it for peanuts and happens to work with a real midget. Well, let me tell you something, though: nobody cares! Nobody comes for the elf. Santa's main attraction. I do Burl Ives songs. Does this schmoe even play guitar?
Bob Chipeska: Look, Harrison, it's not about the money or the midget. Believe me, if it was-- I don't think they like midget. I think you're supposed to call them--
Fired Santa: Oh, just forget it! [Walks away as Willie and Marcus enters the store, then yells to them] Hacks!
Bob Chipeska: [to Marcus and Willie] Hi. Bob Chipeska. Welcome. Great photo and resumè, by the way.
Marcus: Thanks. You know, we've been at this for a long time and all, so we like to think we do a good job.
Bob Chipeska: I'm so glad you two can come at such a short notice. You two are perfect for this job, truly.
[Willie drones out the conversation between Bob and Marcus, eyeing a woman's ass as she walks]
Bob Chipeska: So, I don't want his unpleasantness affect your performance in any way.
Marcus: Oh, no, we--
Willie: Performance?
Bob Chipeska: Yes. Your performance. You know, the...
Willie: Performance, like, sexual?
[Bob looks up at Willie in confusion]
Bob Chipeska: Excuse me?
Marcus: Willie.
Willie: Are you saying there's something wrong with my gear? Is that what you're saying to me?
Bob Chipeska: I'm sorry, your gear?
Marcus: Willie...
Willie: My fuck stick!
[Bob makes a shocked and disgusted look, Marcus quickly saves the situation by shoving Willie]
Marcus: Willie, take a seat. You know how your blood sugar is.
Bob Chipeska: He's not going to say "fuck stick" in front of the children, is he?
Marcus: No! It was just a joke. An adult joke for us adults. It's a joke. Just a joke.
Gin:[smoking a cigarette in his office] "Fuck stick"?
Bob Chipeska: Yeah, I know it's odd, but as our security manager, I want you to be well aware of this. His little friend promised he won't say it in front of the children, which is fine. There is an adult's world and a child's world, and that's OK. I'm no censor.
Marcus: It won't happen again. I can promise you that. Willie here has low blood sugar. That's all.
Willie: That's right. I forgot to take my pill.
Bob Chipeska: It's not just the swearing. Forgive me for prying, but did one of you, um, fornicate...
Willie: Fornicate?
Bob Chipeska: Yes, with a heavy-set woman in the big-and-tall dressing room?
Willie: Look, I've boned a lot of fat chicks in my time, sure. But as far back as I can remember, I've never fornicated anybody.
Bob Chipeska: Yes... Well, even still, I think it's best for all parties considered if we...
Marcus: If we what?
Bob Chipeska: Well, I have somebody else interested in the position.
Willie: Before you do something stupid, you might want to think about this shit.
Bob Chipeska: What are you talking about?
Willie: I'm talking about firing a little black midget. A small, colored, African-American small person. That's what I'm talking about. I'm talking about your face all over goddamn USA Today, that's what I'm talking about. I'm talking about 150 of these little motherfuckers all over the sidewalk out there. Holding picket signs and using bullhorns and shit like that. Screaming and hollering your name out. Unfair practices, get me?
Bob Chipeska: Oh no, this is not a handicapped thing. I have nothing against you people.
Willie: You people? Did you hear that Marcus? He said "you people".
Marcus: Who the hell is "us people"?
Bob Chipeska: No...he said...I...you don't under-- what? No, no. Um, I think it's best if we just forget we had this conversation.
Willie: Good thinking. And don't worry about us. We'll be fine. Let's get the hell out of here, Marcus.
[Willie and Marcus get up to leave, with Marcus taking a candy cane from a cup, as Willie turns back to Bob]
Willie: You're pathetic.
Marcus: Willie, this has been a long time coming. Every year, you're worse. Every year, you're less reliable. More booze, more bullshit, more butt-fucking.
Willie: Sure, the three B's.
Sue: You're pretty regular for a Santa.
Willie: It's not that much of a big fucking deal. It's just a job, you know what I mean? I'm just an eating, drinking, shitting, fucking Santy Claus.
Sue: Prove it.
[cut to Willie and Sue having casual sex in Willie's car, with Willie still wearing his Santa uniform]
Sue: Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa!
Willie: Can't I at least take this hat off?
Sue: NO! I love the hat.
Willie: Okay.
Sue: I've always had a thing for Santa Claus. In case you didn't notice. It's like some deep-seeded childhood thing.
Willie: So is my thing for tits.
[Marcus is scolding Willie for dry-humping an underage lady in the arcade]
Marcus: That's just the kinda shit that's gonna get us pinched.
Willie: She said she was 18.
Marcus: But you promised no arcades! You said you'd only hustle Big and Tall.
Willie: What, you shat me outta your womb? You're my fucking mom now? I don't need any goddamn lectures outta you. I know how to keep a low profile, thank you. [unlocks the stolen BMW]
Marcus: [referring to the car] What the fuck is this, Mr. Low Profile?!
Willie: Mind your own goddamn business. [opens the driver's side door, and several empty beer bottles and cans spill out onto the ground. Willie gets in, starts the car and drives off]
Marcus: [shouting after Willie] Ever hear of the open-bottle law?!
Woman in Food Court: Look who's here, Jimmy! It's Santa!
Willie: Great. Fucking great.
Woman in Food Court: Let's tell him what you want for Christmas.
Willie: [turns to the woman and son] I'M ON MY FUCKING LUNCH BREAK, OKAY?!
Woman in Food Court: [offended] Are you insane? Management's gonna hear about this.
Willie: Think that's a threat? You really think you can make my fucking life any worse, you go right ahead. Be my fucking guest. Take a shot.
[Willie has just passed out]
Gin: Look here, get him outta here and I'll go smooth things over with Chipeska. Tell him it was food poisoning or something.
Marcus: What do you mean, get him outta here?
Gin: Take him to the car.
Marcus: In case you didn't notice, I'm a motherfucking dwarf. So unless you got a forklift handy, maybe you should lend a hand, hmm?
Gin: That figures. You want all kind of set-asides. Special treatment 'cause you're handicapped. You're all the same.
Marcus: Special treatment?! I'm three-foot fucking tall, you asshole! It's a matter of physics. Draw me a sketch of how I get him to the car, huh?
Gin: Bitch, bitch, bitch! [picks up Willie]
Marcus: Sketch it up, you fucking moron. Fucking Leonardo da Vinci.
Gin: [drops Willie] What'd you call me, thigh-high?
Marcus: I called you a fucking guinea homo from the 15th-fucking-century, you dickhead!
Gin: I could stick you up my ass, small fry!
Marcus: Yeah? You sure it ain't too sore from last night?
Gin: You got some lip on you, midget.
Marcus: Yeah? Well, these lips were on your wife's pussy last night. Why don't you dust that thing off once in a while? Asshole!
Willie: You know, I think I've turned a corner.
Marcus: Yeah? You fucking petites now?
Willie: No, I'm not talking about that. I beat the shit out of some kids today. But it was for a purpose. It made me feel good about myself. It was like I did something constructive with my life or something, I dunno. Like I accomplished something.
Marcus: You need many years of therapy. Many, many, many fuckin' years of therapy.

Taglines

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  • He's very naughty . . . and not very nice.
  • He doesn't care if you're naughty or nice.
  • Get Naughty this Holiday Season.

Cast

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