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Fletcher: Nieman, you lost the fucking part. Andrew: No, I didn't! You can't fucking do this to me! Fletcher: CAN'T? Andrew: Yeah! Fletcher: When did you become a fucking expert on what I can or cannot do, you fucking weepy willow shitsack? Andrew: I earned that part. Fletcher: You never earned anything. God, you are a self-righteous prick. The only reason you are a core is because you misplaced a folder. The only reason you're in studio band to begin with is because I told you EXACTLY what I'd be asking for in Nassau! Am I wrong? Andrew: Yeah, yeah. I'm in studio band because I'm the best player... Ryan: [interrupts] Hey, why don't you just back off, bro? Andrew: Hey, you know, fuck off, Johnny Utah! Turn my pages, bitch! Fletcher: Hey, I can cut you any fucking time I want. Andrew: You would've cut me by now. Fletcher: Try me, you fucking weasel. At 5:30, that's in exactly 11 minutes, my band is on stage. If your ass is not on that stool with your own fucking sticks in hand or you make ONE FUCKING MISTAKE, ONE! I will drum your ass back to Nassau where you can turn pages until you graduate or fucking drop out! By the time you're done at Shaffer, you're gonna make Daddy look like a fucking success story. Got it? Or, we can let Johnny Utah play the part. You choose. Andrew: It's my part, I'll be on your stage. [to Connelly] Fuck you. [Runs to get his sticks] Fletcher: You got 10 minutes fucking pathetic pansy ass fruitfuck!

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