Beethoven was laying on his desk, looking depressed enough to write a ten-page suicide note.
Bach went up to him. “Are you okay, Beethoven? You … don’t look very good at the moment,”
Beethoven sighed, “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing,”
“You know all those cakes I ate last week, with the soft icing.”
“You’ve used up all your money haven’t you. How do you even do it- don’t you get income from your compositions?”
“Not until Tuesday, and I can’t afford cake until then.” It had backfired- now he looked like he could write an eleven-page suicide note.