My first time meeting current senatorial and failed presidential candidate Marco Rubio was at a princess party. It was 2008, we were in the upstairs area of the legislature where people come to be actual people, and we shook hands while his daughter’s friends leapt around in pink taffeta. Rubio, who is just one year younger than me by a week, was playing dad, and all of that was fine, as it should be.
I watched Rubio when he led the House floor, gavel in hand. I looked into his eyes as he made it certain that he really didn’t care about what wrath he was enabling from the far right, about what women he was ignoring, about what princesses would never be real princesses according to his flight of Floridian fancy. Rubio, a linchpin for the Republican Party if only for his looks and his connection to Hispanic voters, came off as a fraud. And, yes, these are mere observations. But sometimes staring someone in the eyes is the shortest distance between speculation and fact. Rubio, as a U.S. Senator, has been widely reported as a derelict to the justice he was elected to embody. Sift the records all you want; Rubio missed 41 percent of the votes he was elected to oversee. Rubio is not qualified for his job. Rubio is a plant.
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