The thought process of Miss Piggy in the last five minutes of The Muppets Christmas Carol
My husband’s boss, the man who has harassed the gentle man I love every day for years and has belittled our family to the extent that we live in indentured servitude while I attempt to care for our disabled son, has just offered to pay our mortgage.
Nothing comes for free, Scrooge. You and I have been around enough times to know that. Bob might be able to accept your gift with open-hearted sincerity, but you and I know different. You and I have lived on the mean streets of Victorian Muppet London, where the people are cruel, the Muppets crueller, and there are no cheese for us meeses.
You expect me to accept that suddenly, and with no explanation on your part at all, that there is cheeses for us meeses?
Bob, look at me. Look at me, Bob. Robert. Are we just going to… not question this?
We’re not questioning it. Fine. This is fine.
Let’s just make our gratitude clear, wish Mr Scrooge a Merry Christmas, and then go back inside so we can figure out just what in the hell this means.
Ah, I see.
Mr Scrooge would like to join ‘you and your family’ for ‘a little turkey dinner’.
Your employer has brought an uncooked fourteen pound turkey to my house on Christmas day, and I am asking you, Bob, with my eyes because incomprehensibly the entire city, including some people we’ve never met, are now in our home, and are all expecting to be fed.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Six chairs. Count em. We have six chairs, and our cooking equipment is a stick over an open fire that rats dance on.
It’s okay, though, it’s fine because Scrooge has brought some biscuits and a triangle of oranges, and, in case you forgot, the entire town.
I turn to my pig daughters, for it is becoming clear that my frog sons and their frog father are weak-willed, taken in easily, wholly unaware of the burdens of pig women. Belinda, Bettina. Stand up. Yes. Yes, you will be eating your Christmas dinner standing, in a manner that befits our social class.
Do you think a pig like me didn’t have prospects? Do you think I wanted this life? Do you think it was my mother’s intention for me to run off with a penniless frog bookkeeper? Note my ringlets, frog. Look at the eyelashes I still keep curled despite the dim light of our shabby Muppet favela. You may have missed much about me in the years we’ve been married, but surely it has not escaped your notice that I am a pig with pride.
Do you think that I like that Beaker and Honeydew are here? Do you think I want them to see how we live? That they finally have an answer to what became of the splendid Emily Cratchit, the beauty of her season?
He was never Beaker to me of course.
‘Beaker’ came later. When he was a man of science and patronage.
To me, he was simply Richard.
I’m not saying I loved him as I love you. A woman loves the mother of her pig daughters and frog sons differently to the man she loved in the first blushes of youth, whose voice she still hears with the squeaking of every door.
Mee mee meep to you, too, Richard. It’s lovely to see you, looking so well. Still a trim figure you keep! I always said I would fatten you up.
I’m sorry, I can’t chat too long. I have a raw fourteen pound turkey to roast.
The love we found, the love we found. The sweetest dream, that we have ever known.
Merry Christmas, Richard.
The love we found, the love we found. We carry with us, so we’re never…
‘mee meee mee’