Labels!
The E-Brain won't weigh in on innerspecies politics, leaving me to get out my box of pencils again.
Is it time to turn to the Great Father and Great Mother? What, O Mighty Ancestors, am I to smell on the wind and feel on the soles of my feet?
I am a lost adult child, feeling useless, unguided. The woods are not singing with me in joy. I give to the mosquito, the tick and the deer fly, yet I feel unwanted.
You have asked me to write a comedy like McHale's Navy or M*A*S*H that takes place along the borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan, telling humourous tales from multiple cultural angles (military/government headquarters, local villages, news reporters, international consumer electronics shows, random coffee houses around the world, etc.) but am I not too old and out of touch to write crisp noncynical satire? Why is Doonesbury not sufficient?
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