Who would have thought that in ancient times, when people were supposed to drink blood, there would be a steam city with more chimneys than ancient trees? The "primitive" here is the rust of the bronze gears, and the "daily" is fighting against a flint power plant that could explode at any time.
Flintstone just wants to guard his drafty mechanical cabin and live a peaceful life of "facing the gears and blooming spring flowers" for a few days - provided that the steam toilet no longer sprays out spray with the smell of earth and saltpeter, the bronze gear scooter does not suddenly fall apart when climbing uphill, and the barbecue made by Flintstone's power kitchenware does not smell of engine oil.
But the reality is that his neighbor's steam flying chair always uses his roof as a landing pad. The tribal elder's mechanical crutch gets stuck every three days and requires him to repair it. Even when he goes to the market to exchange for an animal skin, he has to be wary of the "automatic change machine" of the mobile steam vendor spitting out rusty bronze coins.
In this ancient city full of absurd machinery, the so-called "ordinary life" is just a battle of wits and courage with unreliable steam inventions every day, while using irony to complain about this "desired" primitive life. After all, who doesn't want to enjoy the "simple" treatment of steam heating in the era of making fire with wood?
