“Your house, in the middle of your feet.”
“Hey Seppy, don't you live at your house?”
“How clean is your house?”
“How mean is your house?”
A croaking duck in disguise. In truth, an underwater airliner seeking gold with a crush on your speaker cables (and your squeaker cables). It encompasses your pillow (and your compass) and its living rooms will devour you if slighted, hence you better heed its quacks. If you don't, your bread (and your head) will be gone by the morning.
It's also a lesser known poker hand that trumps everything else: five fours.
“Hey Leonard, guess who lives in your house?”
“Yeah I know, that's why I live there.”
“You may have won this round, but one day I'll get you.”
Your house is also the main page on a website. A pornographic one, no doubt. My house would never subscribe to such nastiness/unpleasantness/unpheasantness/newspapers. My big mouse, however, is another story.