Is that Dopey in your car?

I completely fail to understand why any self-respecting Bollywood actress would let someone like Emraan Hashmi within arm's-length distance of herself, let alone permit him the occasional kiss. I mean, the guy is nothing but disgusting. Whoever encouraged him to take up movies ought to be dismembered and clubbed to death with his own left leg. The chap looks more like a government office peon than an actor, what with the mangy stubble and the scruffy clothes, not to mention the permanent hang-dog expression. In fact, within our household, and indeed among much of my extended family, mostly at my mother's instance, we have taken to calling him The Bhikmanga (The Beggar, or The Mendicant, for the ones not in the know). In fact, to be quite precise, he is referred to as The Bhikmanga II, the coveted and highly prestigious post of The Bhikmanga I (or The Original Bhikmanga) being already occupied, for a fairly long time now, by a certain gentleman by the name of Ashmit Patel. As you can probably figure out, subtlety isn't exactly my family's area of specialization.
But I digress. My objective is not to talk about my family's unique inclination towards finding unflattering names for B-Grade Bollywood actors, and Ashmit Patel's non-existent talent and looks shall serve as another subject for another day. What I merely mean to convey as of now is that the only good thing that Emraan Hashmi could possibly have going for him is the fact that his surname has the word 'Hash' in it, a word that for many people goes hand in hand with a variety of undoubtedly pleasant associations.

While we are on the subject of issues I completely fail to understand, I would request the reader to indulge me a little while longer, while I voice my feelings on the subject of soft toys. I mean, what is the entire deal with these soft toys? What is the objective these big furry things are serving, besides acting as extremely large pillows and/or handkerchiefs for your children? If your child wants something to lie on, give him a pillow. If he needs something to wipe his nose with, give him a handkerchief. But, as I see it, this unhealthy obsession to combine the two clearly does not bode well for you, your children, or mankind at large. There are combinations that work, and are called for (like the new iPhone), but quite frankly, soft toys as a seamless coming together of pillows and handkerchiefs don't quite cut it, mostly because you end up lying in your own snot.
And one can rest assured that if there exist daft objects such as soft toys, there will exist, in much greater numbers, people who are dense enough to take them to even greater levels of stupidity. Even if I do assume, for argument's sake, that soft toys are one of those civilization-altering creations, like fire, the wheel, and vodka, what could possibly come out of keeping a dozen of them in one's car?
Just the other day, as I was walking to South Extension to satiate my golgappa cravings, I spied a car (I believe it was a WagonR. Never liked them much.) with an entire array of soft toys, which on closer inspection turned out to be all of the seven dwarves, staring at me from behind the rear window. The answer to the question, "Why would any seemingly sane man spend hard-earned money to buy a set of soft toys and place them next to the rear window of his car?" completely eludes me. Surely, thus placed, these soft toys would be completely incapable of fulfilling either of the only two possible aims I have talked about previously. Moreover, spare a thought for the collateral damage such a move would cause. Merely glancing at the dwarves while I was walking down the street made me freeze and almost resulted in me being run over by an ice-cream cart (Grumpy had an exceptionally belligerent look on his face). Imagine what the upshot would be if I were driving a car and suddenly noticed the seven pairs of small eyes trained on me. Surely I would have a heart-attack, slam into the divider, and kill at least a dozen (four or five of them urinating) pedestrians.

It is getting late, and I must leave you now, for sleep beckons. But before I conclude this post and take my leave, at least for the time being, I must write about one last thing that I have not been able to understand all these years. Indeed, this one has puzzled me even more than the two mentioned earlier, and for a much longer time.

How can a healthy, full-grown, adult man be so tired at the end of the day, when a swallow weighing less than an ounce can fly non-stop across the Atlantic.