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A literary critic gets hired as a building inspector. He walks into an old house, notices a creaky floorboard, and immediately writes in his report: 'The floorboard creaked ominously in the second act—I mean, floor. Expect structural collapse or metaphorical downfall of the homeowner by chapter twelve. Also, that Chekhov print above the fireplace? Someone's definitely getting shot.'

There's a support group for unreliable narrators. They meet every Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Actually, it might be monthly. The facilitator claims twelve people attend regularly, though some members insist there are only three. Last week they discussed trust issues, but according to the minutes—which may or may not exist—they spent the entire session arguing about whether the meeting had actually happened at all.