All right, this is how we're gonna do it:

"Envision bread as black as the soil it came from..."

"I don't want to," he argues, glancing at you worriedly. "Look, officer, I like different, classic food. Fine dining, not soil. Please, just drop it."

"Now turn it upside down, black bread -- like a symbol -- on top, to salute the coal mines our heroes worked."

"No, everything would fall off," he argues, glancing at you worriedly. "Look, officer, I'm not a miner. I like different, tasty food. Fine dining, not coal. Please, just drop it."

"Melting butter, yellow like the sun shining on the backs of workers on the fields..."

"I don't eat worker-food!" he blurts out, immediately regretting it. "Look, officer, I like different, classic food. Fine dining, not worker backs. Please, just drop it."

"Salt is essential -- there can't be too much -- because isn't proletariat the salt of society?"

The sandwich owner looks at you, eyes filled with anguish. "You're describing prison food, officer. I like different, better food. Fine dining, not jailtime. Please, just drop it."

"Wouldn't you rather have a proper sandwich? A sandwich with a soul?"

"Nothing. Actually, let's talk about something else."

"I'm listening, officer." He nods.

"Let me ask you, comrade, did you make the sandwich yourself?"

"Yes, officer." He proudly displays his culinary miracle. It is magnificent.

"Oh...? Still, the over-abundance this sandwich embodies is inherently evil."

I'm not so sure about this...

Too late. Daddy's already fighting the bad fight. Make it stick.

What is political?

This right here is political...