Sandwich Hero! Or is it Hero Sandwich?
Alright, let’s set the stage. Sean Charles Dunn, 37 years old, armed with nothing but a Subway sandwich — possibly a six-inch, possibly a footlong, we may never know — finds himself facing a felony charge. Not for embezzlement, not for grand theft auto, but for daring to introduce a deli product to the chest cavity of a U.S. Customs and Border Protection agent.
Apparently, in the grand hierarchy of American justice, tossing cold cuts at someone in uniform now qualifies as assault with a weapon of mass digestion.
Before the bread-bomb deployment, Sean reportedly shouted anti-government sentiments — which, let’s be honest, probably irritated the officers more than the sandwich-to-torso contact. And when confronted, did Sean deny it? Plead confusion? Blame the wind? Nope. The man looked them squarely in the eye (I imagine) and said, “I did it. I threw a sandwich.” No backpedaling, no PR-spin, no “thoughts and prayers” statement drafted by a crisis manager. Just a man with mayo still on his knuckles, owning every crumb of his rebellion.
And here’s where it gets rich: In this same America, state agents can tase grandmas, kneel on necks, beat people senseless, and accidentally discharge their weapons into unarmed civilians, and the punishment — if it ever comes — is “administrative leave” and a GoFundMe page. But bruise their dignity with a flying slice of provolone, and suddenly you’ve committed a crime on par with breaching national security.
It’s like the whole system is a one-way street: violence flows downward, consequence-free, but the tiniest flick upward — even in the form of lunch meat — gets met with the full legal hammer.
This wasn’t just a sandwich; it was a declaration. A mustard-smeared “no” hurled into the night. No swelling soundtrack, no slow-motion hero shot, no Hollywood rebellion with CGI explosions — just a man in pink shorts, standing on some grimy street corner, telling the whole apparatus of American authority to go pound sand… on wheat bread.
Charles Bukowski would’ve loved it. Not because it’s some noble act destined for the history books, but because it’s ugly, petty, imperfect — and yet, profoundly human. Sometimes the biggest middle finger you can give the bastards is wrapped in wax paper, with a little oil and vinegar dripping down your wrist.
So here’s to Sean Charles Dunn: Patron Saint of Petty Defiance. The man who reminded us that resistance doesn’t always come in the form of marches or manifestos. Sometimes it’s just standing there, in the stale glow of a late-night city, and saying, “Yeah, I did it,” while the cops try to scrape the lettuce off their uniform.
America may not thank you, Sean. But somewhere out there, a sandwich artist is quietly proud.
Julie Bolejack, MBA
