For a while—like, the first thirty or forty years—being Marco Rubio was somewhat normal.
No one knows Marco Rubio’s age. It’s part of his mystery. So is his height. Look it up. No one knows.
Also, you can’t call him just Marco, or Mr. Rubio. It’s gotta be Marco Rubio all at once, or kick rocks.
I mean, he was a lawyer, with four kids, which one assumes poses the usual challenges. Still, he was just sort of a regular, ageless guy—lawyering during the day, screaming at the kids to go to bed at night, and no longer having sex with his wife like they did in their twenties and thirties and even sometimes (when they drank) in their forties.
Then, out of nowhere, he became a senator.
Even so, things remained as bland as they could be, for a Florida senator.
Next thing you know, he ran for President. His opponent? Donald Trump. Shit goes sideways.
Donald Trump began taunting “Little Marco” about surface stuff—his boot heels, his floppy ears. Trump even attacked him for drinking water and sweating. You know, human things.
Then, in a steely, strategic move, Marco Rubio used Trump’s schoolyard style against him. He hinted that Trump wet his pants. He said that Trump used makeup to hide a sweat-stache.
Anyway, it didn’t work. Marco Rubio lost. Fully emasculated, he endorsed Trump.
Now, to be clear about this next section: It’s made up.
Marco Rubio went home that night, the night he endorsed Trump. His wife exclaimed, “What? After all those things he said?” And Marco Rubio replied, “Honey, I see a path. It’s a crazy path, sure, but it leads to ultimate power. I just have to keep my head down and, like, have a sense of humor about all this.”
Marco Rubio’s wife gathered up the children and left.
Years went by, as did Trump’s first Administration. Joe Biden became President, in a spectral kind of way. He once sniffed Marco Rubio’s wife’s hair (they had gotten back together). Actually, Joe Biden sniffed so much hair that it honestly might not have been Marco Rubio’s wife.
