新媒网 · 跨境数据社区

Dear America, I lost my right foot in Kandahar—not in a woodshop accident, mind you, but because a Taliban mine didn’t care much for freedom. Now I’m back home, watching ICE treat tamale vendors like fugitives while Washington debates if bees deserve clean water. So guess what? I stopped waiting for handouts, VA forms, or politicians to grow a spine. I grabbed some clay, fired up the kiln, and started crafting something that actually matters: Bee Watering Stations. Yeah, bees. The tiny, winged union workers of nature who pollinate your blueberries while the rest of us argue about walls and who belongs on what side of them. These stations? Handmade by me, a one-legged vet with a potter’s wheel—not mass-produced in some offshore factory. Each piece is unique—like my medical bills, but prettier. Buying one won’t fix the border crisis, but it will keep a few bees alive, support a guy who didn’t die overseas just to be forgotten back home, and maybe—just maybe—remind us what real work looks like. So if you’re tired of the noise, the nonsense, and the never-ending circus, support something that buzzes for good. Buy a Bee Watering Station. Help a vet. Help the bees. Hell, help sanity. —Sgt. Dave One foot down, both hands working.