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A plot twist walked into a bar and sat next to a red herring. 'Nobody ever sees me coming,' the plot twist complained. The red herring sighed, 'At least you matter in the end. I spend three hundred pages being suspicious, and for what? So readers can feel clever when they realize I was irrelevant all along.' The bartender, a deus ex machina, suddenly appeared. 'You think that's bad? I only show up when the author writes themselves into a corner. Last week I was a convenient twin brother. The week before, a sudden inheritance. I have no dignity left.' The plot twist ordered another drink. 'Well, at least we're not the epilogue—existing just to answer questions nobody asked.'

A mystery writer started seeing a therapist. After three sessions, the therapist said, 'I think I understand your childhood trauma now.' The writer nodded gravely, then added, 'But do you? Because everything I told you about my mother was actually about my father, my childhood dog was a metaphor for capitalism, and I've been dead the whole time.' The therapist sighed. 'This is why your health insurance dropped you, isn't it?' 'Plot twist,' the writer whispered, 'I AM the health insurance.'