"Listen up, cocksuckers! Hurry the fuck up. Get your music. "Irene" only. Set one. Rhythm section out first. Tanner, the kit is a fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking God, I will stop being so polite. [to a stagehand who just walked in] Get the fuck out of my sight before I demolish you. [to band] Stage right, in order, now. [to stagehand] I can still fucking see you, Mini-Me!"