Now, this one really upsets me.
We have an out-of-tune player here.
Before I continue, would that player care to identify himself?
No?
Okay, maybe a bug flew in my ear.
One-fifteen.
Five, six, and…
No. My ears are fine.
We definitely have an out-of-tune player.
Whoever it is, this is your last chance.
And there it went.
Now, either you are deliberately playing out of tune and sabotaging my band or you don’t know you’re out of tune which I’m afraid is even worse.
Reeds.
Five, six, and…
Bones.
Five, six, and…
He’s here.
Tell me it’s not you, Elmer Fudd.
It’s okay. Play.
Do you think you’re out of tune?
What are you…
There’s no fucking Mars bar down there.
What are you looking at?
Look up here. Look at me.
Do you think you’re out of tune?
Yes.
Then why the fuck didn’t you say so?
I’ve carried your fat ass for too long, Metz.
I’m not gonna have you cost us a competition because your mind’s on a fucking Happy Meal instead of on pitch.
Jackson, congratulations, you’re fourth chair.
Metz, why are you still sitting there?
Get the fuck out!
For the record, Metz wasn’t out of tune.
You were, Erickson.
But he didn’t know and that’s bad enough.
