Bach was cooking up yet another fugue like it was the 1720s and nobody could tell him otherwise. He hunched over the manuscript, wig bouncing, scribbling notes like a man who thought God micromanaged harmony.
Enter Shostakovich. Arms crossed. Energy: pissed-off music theory professor meets chronically online teen.
“Bro. That entry?” Shosty pointed. “That's a diminished sixth. It sounds like Baroque diarrhea.”
Bach didn’t even look up. “You wouldn’t know counterpoint if it smacked you in your haunted Soviet face.”
Shosty blinked like he’d been called mid-coma ugly. “I invented trauma harmony, Johann. You write like math with a powdered wig.”
Mahler, sipping a cosmic oat milk latte in the corner, whispered, “Not this again.”
“I’m just saying,” Shosty went on, “this fugue slaps like a church organ falling down stairs.”
Bach stood up, rolled his eyes so hard a cherub caught them. “Sorry I didn’t write my music while ducking KGB death threats and projecting onto a cello.”
Mahler panicked. “Guys—guys—can we not—”
“Stay out of it, Gustav,” both snapped.
Shosty jabbed the paper. “This is a musical war crime.”
“It’s called complexity, you depressed balalaika.”
“You’re a tyrant with a time signature fetish!”
Mahler, melting in the corner: “I should’ve stayed in therapy.”
Bach grabbed the quill like it was a dagger. “Maybe I’ll add another voice. Make it a double fugue. Just to piss you off.”
Shosty: “Do it. I’ll write a sarcastic string quartet about it.”
They glared. Fugue still fugue’d. Mahler quietly started composing Symphony No. 9. Again. In lowercase.
No survivors.
Caption this Meme
