—Deke McClelland and Galen Fott, Photoshop Elements for Dummies (2002)

A centrifuge is a plot, a conspiracy, used by devious characters to cover up their devious behavior.  It's one of the oldest tricks in the book.
—John R. Erickson, The Case of the Halloween Ghost (1998)

I’ve heard “Margaritaville” about 500 times too many on jukeboxes in bars. It might be worth five bucks to me to be able to skip that song the next time someone plays it. Someone should make a jukebox that features a big “SKIP” button and charge five bucks to use it. I think five dollars is just the right amount. It’s high enough that someone won’t keep skipping songs just to be a jerk, but low enough that I can afford to skip that one song that I really just can’t stand to hear one more time.

---

Shaari writes:

Brilliant!  A perfect feint!  Call East, Strike West!  Oldest trick in the book!
—Louis Cha and John Minford, The Deer and the Cauldron (2000)

To bombard one sector and attack another was the oldest trick in the game.
—J. G. Farrell, The Singapore Grip (2005)

I live in fear of being called out on my inappropriate use of the majestic semicolon, that someone will notice it and realize that I do not even have a grade school-level education in punctuation and grammar. Sure, I may have nearly gone to the National Spelling Bee when I was 11, but I cannot form a proper sentence.

[ . . .]

In the end, however, I think I would prefer it if no one spoils the mystery for me. I will sleep more easily at night (The Guy Snoring Above Me notwithstanding) knowing that there is yet a little magic in the world, something I cannot explain.

“[You are a] sacrificial lamb.  You are the rider they bring in, bring along too fast, put in too many big races he’s not ready for or able to ride and then ... pfft.”  He waved a hand absently to the side.  “You and the team are history.”  —Greg Moody, Two Wheels: A Cycling Murder Mystery.

The broken thought is finishing; the thought is done.

He could not handle the embrace; he would have cried and shaken.

The thing you search for is here; you search for spiraling punctuation.

My informant relaxed, having fallen for the oldest trick in the book—the one about pretending you know more than you do.
—Rosemary Edghill, Bell, Book, and Murder (1994)

A caged parrot is in one room, a microwave oven in another.  

The microwave emits a beep every thirty seconds...

alerting the fact that it still holds a cup of reheated coffee.  

The parrot mimics each beep in turn, a forlorn whistle to a distant stranger.  

Two-second expressions of loneliness and abandonment...

Like bio-mechanical clockwork.

Something was left here... it's getting cold.

deep beneath the feathers, dwells a consciousness intact
memories of amazon, the jungle world of past

dwelling in this northern clime, a solitary life
a solitary parrot, lonely quiet for its plight

humans come and humans go, but they make no impression
daydreams in the silence, as time makes its own progression

but something in the here and now, is calling for attention
another room, a microwave, demanding intervention

(beep beep) i'm signaling
(beep beep) is any-one there
(beep beep) i'm waiting waiting
(beep beep) does any-one care

(beep beep) i've done my duty
(beep beep) i've made it hot
(beep beep) the time's increasing
(beep beep) the heat is not

what is that motion, deep in the parrot musing
something touching time and

what is that calling, beyond the jungle daydream,
signals hinting meaning

an urgent message, something has been forgotten
something losing heat and

i feel connected, i feel a newborn kinship
calling, begging for re-sponse

microwave with parroting, a consciousness intact
looping forward endlessly, a symbiotic pact

combined they trigger something, unexpected ringing true
it starts to gain momentum, with the power to renew

re-verberating outward, waves vibrating form a core
flowing out into a world, not knowing what's in store

[A]t least he didn’t choose blindness, which is the oldest and weakest
 trick in the book.
—Thomas Alton Gardner, Confessions of a Corporate Spy (2004)

"oblique triangles of muted illumination"

Though some considered Saint Trigo's writings "obtuse" or "veering off on wild tangents," his dedication to the Trinity had no parallel.

I dreamed that my mother and I went to some sort of retreat held in a rickety old house and led by a woman best described as an old sorceress or witch.  The majority of her regular followers were female children (though there were dozens of adults at this retreat as well), and her retreats involved starving yourself for six days in the dead of winter, the only heat derived from huddling together.  I said to one of the girls, "I imagine that the fasting gets easier as it goes along," and she replied that it gets worse until it's over.  The girls were all very skinny, and I remarked to myself how frequent six-day fasts were likely to stunt a child's growth.  One of the participants was a celebrity that Mom and I quickly recognized: the man who played the father on the American t.v. sitcom "Diff'rent Strokes."  Mom jumped up and said to him, "You need to give me a hug."  At first he didn't seem to hear her and started to sit down, but then her words registered in his ear and he jumped back up to embrace her.  Then he saw me, and while he gave me a hug I was aware that he was smelling my hair.  He seemed so delighted by our hug that he gave me a second one, again smelling my hair.  I assumed that the shampoo I had used still smelled good.  Mom whispered to me, "Tell him about Stig Helmer."  I realized that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor who played Stig Helmer in the Danish television series "The Kingdom."  I wasn't sure what anecdote Mom wanted me to share, so I stammered for a few moments about Stig Helmer being one of my favorite characters in film and how this actor looked just like him.  (The actor who played Stig Helmer passed away recently, but I failed to mention that fact.)  The next thing I remember, the witch is calling everyone together to go to sleep.  I realize that I haven't brought a blanket or pillow, so I scramble around the house looking for a quilt to lie on.  I finally find a blanket and join the group, imagining how hard the floor is going to feel.  The witch walks around the room singing an eerie song to initiate sleep.  I think her lyrics are masterful.  Rather than lulling us into dark oblivion, she calls upon us to actively see through closed eyes the light of the dream world.  I am lying on my side, with my head cradled on my bent arms.  As the witch continues to roam the room and sing, I hear her kneeling down by my head to touch each of my palms with a finger and spread them apart slightly.  I somehow know that this is another aspect of her sleep technique.  However, I have a bit of trouble falling asleep.  After the song ends and the witch leaves, the room is not quiet.  Clearly, there are others who have not fallen asleep either.  I open my eyes to see several people up and moving about.  One man sits at an elaborate desk decorated with all sorts of statues and carvings.  He is typing on a computer keyboard, and with each strike of a key one of the statues animates, turning its head or moving its mouth as if to talk or sing.  I realize that I am lying next to the "Diff'rent Strokes" actor.  We snuggle for warmth, and he rests his hand between my legs.  The next thing I know, everyone in the room is standing up, bumping and grinding, and giving each other haircuts with electric clippers.  I realize that virtually everyone had had long, hippie-style hair, and now everyone is sporting buzz cuts.  People come up to one another and, in disbelief of the transformation, say, "So and so, is that really you?"  When the witch comes into the room alerted by the hubbub, I expect her to be upset, but she doesn't seem to be.  I get the feeling that the retreat is over, and I look around a bit for my toothbrush to freshen my sour mouth before leaving (though I never can find it).  As I leave, I walk past the witch's room.  I see her lying in bed, and I bow to her, feeling remarkably free and happy.  She says, "Don't you know who I am?" over and over again, like an echo in which each repeated phrase is quieter than the last.  Then I realize that the witch is dead, and has actually been dead for quite some time.  And then I realize that I have been looking at a photograph of her all along.  On the drive away from the retreat, we pass by an enormous Hindu shrine which is conducting a huge celebration and parade with hundreds of costumed singers, dancers, elephants.  They are singing and playing their music in a modern techno style which sounds marvelous to me, making me feel downright euphoric.  We drive on, though the music doesn't diminish as we gain distance, and I wish that our driver would pull over so we could walk back to the celebration.  The next thing I know, Mom and I are sitting in one of the rooms of the shrine.  They are passing out instruments to everyone in our long row of people.  People who had participated in the celebration many times are being called to perform special roles in the parade.  We are content to sit where we are.  A large crowd has formed outside the shrine to hear us play.  I tell Mom that I had earlier tried to call my aunt dying of cancer, to thank her for these instruments.

—Lorraine Delia Kenny, Daughters of Suburbia (2000)

Am suffering from constant nightmares.  I dream I am an ellipsis, coming at the end of a long short story (or possibly a short long story) by a famous author, possibly Borges.  The story is also a single sentence.  I always wake up, yelling hysterically, and crying; wondering what is to come next.