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.
