Greg: What? No, I mean, my grandpa changes his mind a lot, so it's not final, and plus, um, he's so sturdy. Like who knows how long I might have to wait. I'm good, anyway, cuz, uh, my, so, I was just talkin' to my mom, and she said, apparently, he'll leave me five million anyway, so I'm golden, baby. Connor: You can't do anything with five, Greg. Five's a nightmare. Greg: Is it? Connor: Oh, yeah. Can't retire. Not worth it to work. Oh, yes, five will drive you un poco loco, my fine feathered friend. Tom: The poorest rich person in America. The world's tallest dwarf. Connor: The weakest strong man at the circus.
Gil: Do you know what is special about the hours between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. on the night of March 12? Tom: Uh, no sir. Gil: That was the only two-hour period in which you did NOT send an email to Mr. Hirsch with the title You Can't Make a Tomlet Without Breaking Some Gregs. You send the same email to him 67 times in one evening. Tom: I guess it was a joke [snickers nervously].