It's disgusting. I can't do this anymore. I'm leaving. I don't want to do this anymore. I feel tired and wired at the same time. This was an awful, awful, awful, awful, awful idea! All right, calm down! Jeez, you're like a Christmas crack monkey. Look, we are not going anywhere, okay? You got me all elfed up, and now we need these jobs. So just go talk to someone and tell them why you need a new pair of tights. I can't. It's embarrassing. Look, either you ask her, or you rip out the crotch and risk showing six-year-olds your winter wonderland. Now I'm sad. You, the one with the dark hair, - I need you to come with me. - Where? And is there a drug test involved? Change of plans. I need for you to be Mrs. Claus. The other one had to leave-- blamed menopause. Menopause, please. I had my uterus yanked out on my lunch hour, and I was back at my desk by 2:00. Follow me... Unless, uh, you don't want that