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Fletcher: Jesus fucking Christ, where have you been? Carl: We have an issue. Fletcher: Okay, now is not the time. Carl: I gave Neiman the folder and Neiman lost it. Fletcher: Neiman lost it? Carl: Yes. Fletcher: The folder is your fucking responsibility, Tanner. Why would you give it to Neiman? Right? You give a calculator to a fucking retard he's gonna try to turn on a TV with it. Now get your sticks and get your ass on stage. Carl: I-- I can't. Fletcher: You can't? Carl: I-- I can't go onstage. I don't know the charts by heart. Fletcher: Are you fucking kidding me? Carl: I-- [stammers] You know this. I need the music. It's my memory, I need visual cues. Fletcher: Visual cues? Carl: Yes, it's a medical condition-- Fletcher: A medical condition? What are you, fucking Sanjay Gupta? Play the goddamn music. Carl: I can't. Andrew: I can. Fletcher: You know "Whiplash" by heart? Andrew: Yes, sir. Every measure. Fletcher: All right. Well, you better fucking hope your memory doesn't fail you. And I hope you play it a whole lot better than you did last month in rehearsal, because I do not intend to start losing now. Get your sticks and get your sticks and get your fucking ass onstage. [to band] Onstage!

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