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Fletcher: Why do you suppose I just hurled a chair at your head, Neiman? Andrew: I... I don't know. Fletcher: Sure you do. Andrew: The tempo. Fletcher: Were you rushing or were you dragging? Andrew: I don't know. [Fletcher rushes to the kit and stares Andrew in the face] Fletcher: Start counting. Andrew: Five, six-- Fletcher: In four, damn it! Look at me. Andrew: One, two, three, four-- [Fletcher slaps him] ...One, two, three, four-- [slap] ...One, two, three... Fletcher: Now, was I rushing or was I dragging? Andrew: I don't know. Fletcher: Count again. Andrew: One, two, three, four-- [slap] ...One, two, three, four-- [slap] ...One, two, three... Fletcher: Rushing or dragging? Andrew: Rushing. Fletcher: So you do know the difference! If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig. Now are you a rusher, or are you a dragger, or are you gonna be ON MY FUCKING TIME?! Andrew: I'm gonna be on your time. Fletcher: [points to sheet music] What does that say? Andrew: Quarter note equals 215. Fletcher: Count me a 215. Andrew: One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four... Fletcher: Jesus fucking Christ! I didn't know they allowed retards into Shaffer! Am I to understand that you cannot read tempo? Can you even fucking read music?! What is that? Andrew: Eighth note. Fletcher: Yes, what is that? Andrew: Dotted sixteenth note. Fletcher: Sight-read measure 101. Andrew: Bop-bop-ba-bop-ba-- Fletcher: What, are you in a fucking a cappella group? Play the goddamn kit! [Andrew drums the measure] Stop. Now answer my question: were you rushing, or were you dragging? [Andrew doesn't respond] ANSWER!!! Andrew: Rushing. Fletcher: [sees Andrew shed a tear] Oh, my dear God. Are you one of those single tear people? Do I look like a double fucking rainbow to you? You must be upset. Are you upset? Andrew: No. Fletcher: No? So you just don't give a shit about any of this? Andrew: I do give a shit about this. Fletcher: So, are you upset? Yes or fucking no? [Andrew nods yes] Yes, you are upset. Andrew: Yeah. Fletcher: Say it. Andrew: I'm upset. Fletcher: Say it so the whole band can hear you. Andrew: I'm upset! Fletcher: Louder! Andrew: [loud] I'm upset! Fletcher: LOUDER! Andrew: [louder] I'M UPSET! Fletcher: You are a worthless, friendless, faggot-lipped little piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she figured out he wasn't Eugene O'Neill, and who is now weeping and slobbering all over my drum set like a fucking nine-year old girl! So for the final, FATHER-FUCKING TIME, SAY IT LOUDER!!! Andrew: [at the top of his lungs] I'M UPSET!!! Fletcher: Carl. [Carl takes Andrew's place at the drums as Fletcher goes back to compose the band] Start practicing harder, Neiman.

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