You come home a little bit too late, a little bit too drunk, a little bit too happy.
The wife eyes you distrustfully and asks what that flowery odor is. "Aww, we gave a bunsch of flowers to one of the (hic) sexretaries. Had a little party."
Is that so. Well, why didn’t you answer when I called you at work?
"Uhh, you called my office, and we were all in the resheption area drinking shampagne."
Oh really. Well, I called the reception area too. 4 times. The phone rang and rang.
"Ohh, thassright! We all went to a bar, thass right. Freddy’s place or something…"
At this point, you are living in what a German would call a Lügengebäude — a "Building of Lies." You pronounce it Loo*-gen-guh-BOY-duh. In English you can, of course, spin a tissue or web of lies. But I think the idea of crafting a nice, solid, bricks-and-mortar building of lies is more apt. It conveys how hard it is to get out of one once you’ve built it.
I might also add that thinkers who create large, comprehensive philosophical systems — I need hardly mention which country has the leading reputation here — build Gedankengebäude, or "Buildings of Thought."
I’d to extend this a little down the scale. Can I live in an Apartment of Lies(Lügenwohnung)? Drive around in a Car of Thought (Gedankenwagen)? Hand someone a Box of Lies (Lügenschachtel)? The answer to all of these questions is: of course! German is, after all, the super-duper ultra-modular Lego language.
* Actually, this pronunciation isn’t quite right, since the first ü, which has those two cute dots over it (umlauts), is pronounced a little funny. Germans claim there’s a difference between a regular u and ü. I thought only dogs could actually hear the difference until I began mixing up Schwül, which means humid, and Schwul, which means homosexual. I don’t know how many times I told people that Texas has extremely homosexual summers. That got their attention, I must say.