M*A*S*H

Four cartons of gauze.

48 boxes of cotton balls.

The day before Christmas,

we're receiving the gift of the magpies.

‐Ohh! ‐Come, come, Doctors. No fighting.

After all, there's a truce on.

Why do you think I'm so happy?

The only surgery I'll be doing is on a turkey.

Yes, I'll be coming to the mess tent

for a prayer and a wing.

What's everybody so happy about?

Don't you know it's Christmas?

Well, if it isn't Santa's jolly little oaf.

After a few days of dragging Christmas packages around,

let's see you be jolly, Roger.

Now, if you want this junk, listen up.

Hunnicutt, B. J.

Whoa! Airmail. Surly delivery.

Houlihan, Margaret.

What do you got? You got anything?

It must be cookies! It even feels fattening!

Oh‐ho‐ho‐ho!

What‐What‐What‐What‐What?

Peg's mom's second‐finest creation:

‐Her incredible, world‐famous fudge. ‐Oh.

She treats me with great confection.

You got to put that someplace safe, like my mouth.

Here's a piece of resistance for Major Winchester.

It's the third one this week marked "perishable."

What is this? A ton of pound cake?

Klinger, you remind me of Tiny Tim,

except that it's your brain that's lame.

Excuse me, troops.

I hate to hex your Xmas, but I bring bad yule tidings.

The supply convoy's been hit by marauders.

Our turkey dinner's been trimmed.

‐B.J.: Come on. ‐Stealing turkeys, that stinks.

Don't those guys know there's a war on that's off?

Afraid the best we can look forward to

is roast leg of Spam.

‐Aw! ‐I gave that up for the war.

Please, please. Now, while we're all busy

feeling sorry for ourselves,

let me give you a little food for thought.

The ones who'll really miss out

will be our young guests from the foster home.

Sure. They'll come to the party expecting turkey

and end up with our standard bill of unfair.

Isn't it ironic? They're the refugees,

yet we get the care packages.

They can have my cookies.

Very sweet, Margaret.

They can have my niece's sugar‐cured ham.

I don't need any more air in my spare tire.

I must have something back in my footlocker.

Better chip in than chipped beef, huh?

Uh, you...

Ah, fudge.

Yeah, they can have this.

I'll just eat my heart out.

Beej, you get the Noble Prize.

We got the makings of a great buffet,

just like the smorgasbord down at the Kiwanis back home.

Klinger, I'm appointing you chairman

of the food procurement committee.

You get out and canvass all the tents.

Tell 'em to give till it hurts.

‐(wind whistling) ‐This Christmas schlepping is killing me.

You put your goodies in that sack,

I'll put my goodies in this sack.

Don't look at me. I gave at the office. Talk to them.

Okay, okay. Let's see what I got here.

A quart of Old Grand‐Dad from my grand old dad.

Some fruitcake from my nutty aunt Sarah.

I'll take the cake. You keep your Christmas spirits.

I'll drink to that.

And now, from the man who has everything‐‐

I know, because I personally delivered it.

Always ready to do my part.

There you are, my swarthy Samaritan.

What's this?

These, Corporal, are smoked and succulent oysters.

Not a whole lot to suck on.

Klinger, remember the old adage.

It's not the size of the gift. It's the cost.

You must be kidding.

You got three great big packages this week,

and all you're comin' up with

are a few oysters, Rockefeller?

They were all clothing.

All chintz, I'm sure.

Since when do they mark clothing "perishable"?

Gentlemen, my business is just that: mine.

I demand that you terminate this swinish inquisition.

‐We'll terminate you if you don't come up with‐‐ ‐Please! Please!

I'm sure Major Winchester

must have a very good reason for what he's doing.

‐Yeah. ‐He's a cheap, selfish skunk‐‐ sir.

Sergeant Rizzo, I need to sign out that jeep. S‐‐ Sergeant Rizzo.

It's the timing. The timing is off.

‐Well, I'm sure you could fix it in your sleep. ‐Well, well.

If it isn't the spirit of Christmas hisself.

‐Good news travels fast. ‐The word is the rich get richer

and the poor get oysters.

‐Sergeant, about the jeep‐‐ ‐No problem. No problem, Major.

‐I'm sure you have your DR‐3. ‐DR‐who?

‐The authorization form. It means you got permission. ‐I know what it means.

In triplicate, signed by the president of your fan club

and our company clerk.

‐Sergeant, surely we can overlook the‐‐ ‐Oh, no, no. Mm‐mmm, Major.

No. Just because I don't read too good

doesn't mean that I don't do things by the book.

Sergeant, perhaps I can appeal to your more masculine instincts.

‐Come again? ‐I need the jeep for an assignation.

You gonna kill somebody?

A tryst, a rendezvous.

‐Date. ‐Ohh.

Oh‐ho‐ho. I get it.

A word to the wives is efficient, huh?

Precisely. I'm sure that a man of the world such as yourself...

Enough said. Enough said. You cheap rascal.

‐You're saving your yummies for some babe. ‐(laughs deviously)

‐You are a crumb, but I respect you for it. ‐Good.

Just, uh... Just let me know if she's got a friend.

Will do, sport. Maybe we can double sometime.

Hey, yeah!

Klinger, do you have a needle and thread handy?

Uh, should be here somewhere, sir. What's up?

What's down is the problem.

The suit I can stuff with pillows,

but I'd have to have a head the size of MacArthur's

to hold up this Kris Kringle cap.

‐Be right with you, sir. ‐(sniffing)

Every time I sniff this room,

I feel like I've died and gone to the A&P.

Oh, thank you, son.

Now, would you be Santa's helper and thread this for me?

‐Mm‐hmm. ‐Seems like they're

making these holes smaller every year.

What are elves for, sir?

(Humming "12 Days of Christmas")

Christmas carols! I love 'em.

We gotta do some of that at the party tomorrow.

Way ahead of you, sir. That's why I've been writing down the words.

I'm gonna make copies for everybody. It's amazing

how many of the old holiday songs I remember by heart.

"Three French horns, two turtlenecks,

and a partridge in a pair of trees."

You're right. It is amazing.

‐Uh‐‐ ‐May I help you, sir?

Uh, Uh, no, no. Uh, I'm just a friend from the 4077th.

Oh, yes. The children in my care

are invited to your camp tomorrow.

‐Yes. ‐Is there a problem?

No, no. I'd‐‐ I brought these for the children.

You are very kind, Major‐‐

Winchester III.

And I am Choi Sung Ho.

Oh. (chuckles softly)

"Wallingford and Chadwick, Confectioners."

Yes, these are very special.

They're hand‐poured by the finest chocolatiers in Boston.

We are very grateful. Oh, please come in.

Allow the children to show their appreciation.

No, no. You don't understand.

I cannot.

I'm sorry. See, on Christmas Eve,

it's a tradition in my family

to leave this particular gift at places like this.

But part of the custom also holds

that for it to be a true act of charity,

the gift must remain anonymous.

Ahh. That is a lovely thought.

You have practiced this for many years?

Oh, my. Yes.

Some of my earliest recollections of childhood

are associated with it.

I still remember being

with my mother, father, and sister Honoria,

and watching, fascinated,

as Mr. Wallingford hand‐wrapped each morsel,

and then later,

wiping a peephole in the auto's frosted window

and watching my father quickly leave the packages.

I mean, we can't have the little urchins

begging in the street, now can we?

Remember.

Not a word.

Not a word.

Well, I hope you know you're ruining it for the rest of us.

‐What? ‐Santa will never show up while you're awake. Silly guy.

Don't you know you're supposed to be asleep,

with visions of sugarplums dancing in your head?

You call yourself a WASP.

I been doin' this ever since I was a kid.

Something magic about Christmas. You never outgrow the memories.

My family always used to put up a nativity scene.

One year, I got this great set of electric trains.

I laid the track all around the village,

put the three wise men in the caboose.