It's Christmas Eve. –Yeah. You don't have to tell me that. –Yeah, well, then why aren't you out delivering presents? –Technically, I am. –Well, you're not, 'cause you're stood right there. –Oh, Shona, grow up, luv. –Yeah, do the math, baby. –There's not just one Santa delivery team. How could there be? There are 526,403,012 children all expecting presents before tomorrow morning. So that's 22,000,000 children per hour! That's impossible. Obviously, I've got a second sled.
There will be no free rides. No excuses. You already have two strikes against you. There are some people in this world who will assume that you know less than you do because of your name and your complexion. But math is the great equalizer. When you go for a job, the person giving you that job will not want to hear your problems, and neither do I. You're going to work harder than you ever worked before. And the only thing I ask from you is ganas. Desire.
Come on, Howard, the odds of us picking up girls in a bar are practically zero. –OK, really? Are you familiar with the Drake Equation? –The one that estimates the odds of making contact with extraterrestrials by calculating the product of an increasingly restrictive series of fractional values such as those stars and planets, and those planets likely to develop life: N = R* × ƒp × ne × ƒl × ƒi × ƒc × L? –Yeah. That one.