Is that a reason? I mean, is that a reason?

Mr. Parmenter:

Now, your performance chart's pretty good until here. And then your focus nosedives into the red. You see? Now, is there anything that happened around *here*... you might like to talk about? Tim Dingman:
Um, no. Mr. Parmenter:
You sure? Tim Dingman:
Yeah. No. Mr. Parmenter:
Any Reason? Tim Dingman:
Reason? No, I can't think of... Mr. Parmenter:
Any reason at all? Tim Dingman:
No. No reason. No. I mean, nothing I can think of. I mean... you know, other than every day, I get into my little shit-box car and there he is... with the wind in his hair... on his great big shiny horse. And I drive off to do what? To make sandpaper. To make paper with sand on it. I'd love to see you try to turn your weasley little mouth into a fake smile, day after day after day while you have to wave toodly-fucking-do to your best friend who's rearing up on a big white horse like he's the Lone Ranger! Then I'd like to take a peek at your performance chart, you beady-eyed little shrimp-boat bastard! [voice cracks] Tim Dingman:
Is that a Reason? I mean, Is that a Reason?