Most of you probably can’t handle the ups and downs of being a political blog contributor. Most recently, I noticed the impressive prosecutorial failure to earn an indictment in the Washington, DC case of the guy who threw the sandwich at the border patrol goon.

Then I started tossing around headlines like “If it’s turkey on white, you cannot indict!”

I was on a roll.

But then I spent at least five minutes on the internet and concluded that nobody seems to know what exact type of sandwich Mr. Sean Dunn hurled in his fit of patriotic pique. How could this be? What has happened to journalistic integrity? The sandwich and the man should be immortalized together. If we can’t include this kind of salient detail in future accounts of 21st-century domestic antifascism, what is our children learning?

Your correspondent was despondent. Sigh. Some generic submarine sandwich (or is that a hoagie/hero/grinder?) pic would have to do.

However, the internet bounced back and nearly made up for this egregious lack of specificity by providing not just a picture of a submarine sandwich, but a picture of a flying submarine sandwich. The flying crumb … the midair condiment … it really captures the historical heft of the moment.

Like I said, ups and downs.

Is it just me, or does a flying submarine sound like something straight out of a Reagan third term or a Trump second term?

Anyway, it’s easy to think of Mr. Dunn as the hero of this moment, and there’s something to that. If the correct reaction to finding one’s self next to a Nazi is punching him in the throat (spoiler: it is), then hurling a handheld seems like the least a good American can do upon finding a Border Patrol agent nowhere near a border and doing the bidding of, well, you know.

Still, I suspect we agree that the real heroes are the grand jury who not only declined to indict a (possibly) ham sandwich, as the saying goes, but also the man who let ‘er fly. They could have felt like they had to comply, but instead they remained comfortable in their collective power under the law. They knew that felonious assault (yes, that was the desired charge) might be a lot of things, but hurling several inches of oven-baked carbs isn’t one of them.

By refusing to cave and by seizing the common sense that the American right prefers to think of as its own, those grand jurors stuck it to Dear Leader, and he had no recourse.

Their defiance also reinforced a fact the rest of us need to keep in mind: When you’re a tragically flawed narcissist who spends his entire day trying to keep convincing yourself that you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread and can do no wrong, reality bites.

(But the soundtrack didn’t.)