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Rick takes a loud, aggressive sip of a flask labeled 'SANTA'S TEARS' and burps directly into Morty’s face. "Relax, Morty. It’s a classic holiday tradition. You take the family, you stick them in a high-stakes, legally distinct sci-fi parody of a 1980s comedy, and you wait for the third-act catharsis. It's practically formulaic."
"But Rick! Summer is being held hostage by a species of hyper-capitalist reindeer in the Andromeda galaxy, and Mom is currently arguing with a sentient wreath that wants to harvest her DNA!" Ricktional Mortpoon's Rickmas Mortcation
"Rick, I—I think we messed up. This isn't the family vacation you promised." Rick takes a loud, aggressive sip of a
Rick rubs his eyes and stumbles to his feet, grabbing his portal gun from the coffee table. "Ugh, fine. Grab your coat, Morty. We're going to save Christmas. But if anyone tries to make me drink eggnog with floating marshmallows again, I'm burning this entire dimension to the ground." You take the family, you stick them in
Rick wakes up on the couch, surrounded by empty space-nog boxes. His head is pounding with a hangover that could flatten a small moon. Jerry is in the corner, painstakingly untangling a massive ball of holiday lights that Rick clearly cursed to whisper existential dread every time a bulb blinks. Morty enters the room, holding a glowing green box with shaking hands.
Morty sighs, following Rick out to the garage as a rogue sleigh-ship streaks across the sky, blasting festive synth-wave music.
