Ray: Hey, Mom and Dad, I think I know what I'm gonna get you for Christmas.
Frank: Better not be a pet. I hate people who give pets.
Ray: Yeah, yeah, we know, Dad.
Frank: Giving a pet means "You're old, I find you boring. Talk to a bird."

Frank: What did you do? Try to soften her up with a big present so you could go play golf?
Ray: For your information, Dad, it's a little more complicated than that.
Frank: You're an idiot. Give me that chocolate. Sit down. Let me tell you something about women. You think you've got to butter them up to get what you want. That is a poor man's game. "Oh, sweetums, here's some flowers. Can I go to the lodge?" Not for me. Not for me! I don't do that nice crap.
Robert: So how do you get what you want?
Frank: I've learned to do without.

Ray: Hey, at least I don't spend my whole life competing with my little brother!
Robert: Oh, yeah? Let me tell you something. I don't have to compete with you.
Ray: Oh, you don't compete? That's all you do! Look at this! You saved this for 10 years! 10 years!
Robert: Oh my God. I saved that letter for 10 years.
Debra: Oh, Robert, that's not so bad.
Robert: In a Ziploc bag! Everything I do... my job, my marriage, trying to get Mom and Dad's attention...
Frank: Leave me out of this.
Robert: Anytime something good happens to me, the first thought I get is, "Hey, what about that, Raymond?" And if it's something bad, I actually say a prayer that Ray... doesn't do so good that day.
Debra: You say a prayer?
Robert: "Come on, God. Get him!"

Frank: I remember this letter. I had all the stuff I was going to do when I retire on this.
Marie: Was "being nicer to your wife" on there?
Frank: Might as well have been. It's all ridiculous crap. "Fix up a '57 Chevy and drive it across the country." Why would I want to do that? That's where California is. You all know how I feel about California...
All: Yes.
Frank: A state full of nut jobs, hippies, and artsy-fartsies. Drive across country? I'd rather drive off a cliff!
Marie: I'll warm up the car.

Debra: Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just that your mother is sending out this stupid family Christmas letter, and I look terrible in it. She makes it sound as if she has to raise my kids and clean my house while I sit around and drool into a cup.
Ray: Just let her have her delusions. What else does she have... chasing Dad around the house with a can of Lysol?