There comes a point when cheerfulness shades into inanity and young Jamesie had found it and set up his stall there.
From Jon L. Breen's "The House of the Shrill Whispers":
If we were characters in a novel instead of characters in a short story, I'd discourse with you at appropriate length about the foolishness and absurdity of characters in fiction pretendin' they're real.
From Ellery Queen's The Finishing Stroke:
It turned out a huge sprawl of a house, of incredible spread, coming to a giant peak--a two-story-and-attic so broad it looked sat upon.... The whole monster was thickly nested in shrubs, an Ancient Mariner of a house with a Galway beard.
[Doing the Math dept.]
"I conclude a [romantic] triangle."
"I'm not helping you with your math, Mr. Queen."
["We'll take that as a compliment" dept.]
"December twenty-fifth through the night of January fifth--Christmas through what's officially known as Twelfth Night--that makes a holiday party of twelve days, Ellen."
"What of it?"
"Look around. Twelve people in the party. Doesn't that strike you as interesting?"
"Not in the least," Ellen retorted. "What a peculiar mind you have."
Chapter V.... In Which a Summerhouse Sets the Scene for a Winter's Tale....
She looked as if she were tryinig to get off her horse and remain in the saddle at the same time.
["Using up all the e's" dept.]
Mrs. Brown eeked every time she laid eyes on him.
"Aha!" Ellery said. "And oho!"
[Exotic Mild Oaths dept.]
"I'll be double-dyed in Danbury."
"A whale of a red herring, you might say."