I think you all know why I've called you here today. Our Summer Concert Series opens in 26 hours, and not one of you drooling snot vessels is fully prepared. Tomorrow evening at a quarter to seven, this auditorium and I use that word with all the import of its Latin root will begin to fill. You may know some of the people in the audience. Some may even be your friends, your parents, your former instructors; regardless of whether these people have held your hands or wiped your poopy asses or forced theory down your raw, strepped throats until you wanted to hurl, they will not love you or respect you until you have made their hearts like your throats swell with the glory of music.
Tomorrow night is the most important night of your lives. If even one wrong note issues forth from your instrument, I will personally walk over to your place in the orchestra, tear your sheet music in half, and force you to eat it. Except for you, Mr. Pfeiffer. Don't think I've forgotten how well you enjoy eating paper.
Jesus H. Christ, Ms. Laine, have you wetted your pants? Because I made you nervous? Ms. Laine, if you are nervous now, imagine how much more nervous you will be tomorrow night, up on stage, under those hot lights, with only black pants, a white shirt, and your instrument to protect you from the disappointed groans of the audience. Do not cry. Ms. Laine. Stop it. Ms. Caneras, please! Ms. Laine's lack of professionalism does not set a precedent. I will not tolerate crybabies in my orchestra! Please, leave. I don't care where you go. How about home to your mommy? Twerp.
Is anyone else too afraid to face the literal music? Anyone else feel as if he might soil himself in the near future? Mr. Xang, you have a comment or concern? Mr. Pfeiffer has eaten your sheet music? I understand. Mr. Pfeiffer, please come sit at the front of the stage, next to me, until I decide what to do with you. Leave your instrument on your chair. Hands at your sides, Mr. Pfeiffer, and if I see those conjunctivitis-riddled puss balls of yours hungrily eyeing my score, I will not hesitate to sodomize you with this baton.
Now then, let us begin with Shostakovich No. 5. I want to start at measure 24, where the maracas come in. From resting position, let's lift our instruments up, and-a one, and-a two, and-a
GAH! In the name of all that is sacred to Islam, I beseech you, WATCH ME WHILE I AM CONDUCTING. I am not waving my arms around because I need the exercise, people! Ms. Kelley, how do you expect to play your instrument which requires the use of your mouth when there is enough Bubblicious in there to cover a miniature pony? Stop giggling. Stop thinking about miniature ponies. I'm sorry I brought it up.
Gentlemen in the woodwinds section, I did not spend six months painstakingly transposing this piece for a modified orchestra so that you could use rehearsal time to discuss the merits of having a pet pteradactyl. Anyway, they have been extinct for some time. No, Mr. Xang, you did not see an "alive one" at the San Diego Zoo last Spring Break.
You know what? I'm finished. I wash my hands of this orchestra. If you want opening night of our Summer Concert Series to be so dreadful, so cacophonous that the "Series" has to be crossed off of all the promotional materials, so be it. Enjoy playing "Erie Canal" for the rest of your miserable, directionless lives.