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?

Debra: You cannot send this out.
Marie: I don't understand.
Debra: "Debra's cooking is coming along. Someday I might even consider her for a job at Chez Marie." You're considering me for a job in your restaurant?
Marie: It's not a real restaurant. It's make-believe!
Debra: What about this? "Debra is outnumbered by the kids 3-to-1, so I've had to help out, so now it's even." So you're saying that you are worth two of me.
Marie: No one's going to do the math. I'm just saying it's nice.
Debra: It's not nice. It's you having to help poor, pathetic Debra!
Marie: And isn't that nice?
Debra: It's not true. You are not sending this out.
Marie: Oh? I'm not?
Debra: Not like this, no way.
Marie: Well, I'm sorry, but this is my letter, and this is America.

Ray: All right, here's what it should say. "Ray entertains and informs his readers with stories that use sports to illuminate the human condition." You heard me. "Human condition"!

Robert: Is it anything like your last Christmas letter?
Marie: Well, I haven't written a Christmas letter in 10 years.
Robert: [removes paper] Look familiar?
Marie: You kept that 10 years?
Robert: Oh, yes. I wasn't exactly pleased with the way I was portrayed, and I made a solemn pledge to never let that happen again.
Ray: Dude, you are so weird.
Robert: Am I, Raymond? Am I? There were six lines in your section. I got three. Half, okay? And after it came out, everybody gave me a pitiful, pathetic look.
Ray: You always get that look.
Robert: It was more pronounced, man!
Marie: Well, we can't change anything now. But don't worry... there's a lovely part about you.
Robert: Oh, yeah? Let me see that. Uh-huh, uh-huh, okay, mm-hmm. Raymond gets 1, 2,3, 4, 5, 6... seven lines. And I get 1, 2, 3... three! Less than half! I'm losing ground!

Ray: You may not think my job is so hot, but 600,000 discriminating readers do.
Robert: So you've broadened the definition of the word "discriminating" to include people who do their reading
with their elbow on a roll of toilet paper?

Debra: All right, all right. Enough. Here, make a new list and start on that. You can do it. You're not dead yet! And, Robert, come on! You're smart, successful, handsome, no matter what Ray does or doesn't do. You're not a loser. You're a lieutenant in the New York City Police Department for god sake.
Ray: And what about me?
Debra: You're fine. You're married to me, okay? All of you! Come on!

Ray: Hey, eight maids a-milkin'!
Debra: You gonna do this every night until Christmas? Can't we just cut to "partridge in a pear tree" and be done with it?
Ray: Wow. Why don't we go to Macy's, you can punch Santa and kick an elf.

Marie: Okay, I've got to get those letters to the post office before they close.
Debra: Wait a minute. Wait a minute! You're still sending that letter?
Marie: Of course, dear. I have to.
Debra: You have to? Marie, when I speak, what is it you hear? Is it, like, backwards-talk or dolphin squeaks? [slaps Marie's biscottis out of Ray's hands]