"The submarine sandwich’s... phallic yet floppy nature can also be seen in this context as a mocking reflection of the administration’s strutting, performative, hollow machismo...."

"'He thought it was funny. Well, he doesn’t think it’s funny today,' declared Ms. Pirro, playing the nation’s sputtering high school vice principal sick of all these disrespectful kids, in a video announcing that Mr. Dunn would be charged with felony assault.... Attorney General Pam Bondi... condemned him as 'an example of the Deep State we have been up against for seven months.' That seems like a lot of firepower brought to bear on a single sandwich-throwing paralegal...."

Writes Bruce Handy, author of "Hollywood High: A Totally Epic, Way Opinionated History of Teen Movies," in "I’ll Have My Resistance on a Roll. Hold the Mayo" (NYT).

As you may have noticed, the prosecutor failed to get an indictment, disproving at long last "that grand juries aren’t in fact willing to indict ham sandwiches."

By the way, what's the origin of that old joke? Let's read Tom Wolfe's "Bonfire of the Vanities":

The grand-jury rooms in the island fortress were not like regular courtrooms. They were like small amphitheaters. The members of the grand jury looked down on the table and chair where the witnesses sat. Off to one side was the clerk’s table. There was no judge in a grand-jury proceeding. The prosecutor sat his witnesses down in the chair and questioned them, and the grand jury decided either that the case was strong enough to put the defendant on trial or that it wasn’t and threw the case out. The concept, which had originated in England in 1681, was that the grand jury would protect the citizenry against unscrupulous prosecutors. That was the concept, and the concept had become a joke. If a defendant wanted to testify before the grand jury, he could bring his lawyer into the grand-jury room. If he was (a) perplexed or (b) petrified or (c) grievously abused by the prosecutor’s questions, he could leave the room and confer with a lawyer outside in the hall—and thereby look like someone who was (b) petrified, a defendant with something to hide. Not many defendants took the chance. Grand-jury hearings had become a show run by the prosecutor. With rare exceptions, a grand jury did whatever a prosecutor indicated he wanted them to do. Ninety-nine percent of the time he wanted them to indict the defendant, and they obliged without a blink. They were generally law-and-order folk anyway. They were chosen from longtime residents of the community. Every now and then, when political considerations demanded it, a prosecutor wanted to have a charge thrown out. No problem; he merely had to couch his presentation in a certain way, give a few verbal winks, as it were, and the grand jury would catch on immediately. But mainly you used the grand jury to indict people, and in the famous phrase of Sol Wachtler, chief judge of the State Court of Appeals, a grand jury would “indict a ham sandwich,” if that’s what you wanted.

ADDED: Maybe the prosecutor in sandwich guy's case gave a few of those verbal winks Wolfe was talking about.