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If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will **** you like a pig.
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Listen up, ****s! Hurry the **** up. Get your music. "Irene" only. Set one. Rhythm section out first. Tanner, the kit is a tonal **** catastrophe. Get it in tune, all right? Rhythm and soloists, bar 45. We're gonna pick up the tempo there, all right? Bar 106, brass, do not forget we sharp that ninth. Everybody remember, Lincoln Center and its ilk use these competitions to decide who they are interested in and who they are not. And I am not gonna have my reputation in that department tarnished by a bunch of **** limp-dick, sour-note, flatter-than-their-girlfriends, flexible-tempo dipshits. Got it? One more thing. Eugene, give me that. [Eugene hands Fletcher his music folder] If I ever see another one of these lying around, I swear to **** God, I will stop being so polite. [to a stagehand who just walked in] Get the **** out of my sight before I demolish you. [to band] Stage right, in order, now. [to stagehand] I can still **** see you, Mini-Me!
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Neiman, you earned the part. Alternates, will you clean the blood off my drum set?
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Now, are you a rusher, or are you a dragger, or are you gonna be ON MY **** TIME?!
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Oh, my dear God. Are you one of those single tear people?
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Parker, that is not your boyfriend's dick. Do not come early.
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The folder is your **** responsibility, Tanner. Why would you give it to Neiman? Right? You give a calculator to a **** **** he's gonna try to turn on a TV with it. Now get your sticks and get your ass on stage.
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We've got a squeaker today, people. Neiman. 19 years old. Isn't he cute?
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Were you rushing or were you dragging?
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You are a worthless pansy-ass who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a nine year old girl!
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You think I'm **** stupid? I know it was you.