Just take a long, good look at Marco Rubio in this photo—standing there beside Trump like a dumb wax figurine someone forgot to unplug, smiling with the stupid, flat, haunted expression of a man whose soul’s been in escrow since 2016. You can see it in his eyes—those vacant, fogged-over little marbles that once held ambition but now just reflect fluorescent lighting and regret. There’s no pulse, no conviction—just the faint little hum of pathetic servitude, the sound a hollowed-out man makes when he’s realized he’s sold his soul not to the devil for power, but for the privilege of being the Devil’s bitch.

He doesn’t even look coerced anymore. No one’s twisting his arm. He’s exactly where he wants to be—standing obediently in the glow of a tinpot orange messiah, hoping for another pat on the head like a little lapdog. Maybe he finds it familiar. After all, his family didn’t flee tyranny out of moral conviction; they fled because the wrong tyrant lost. They were Batista loyalists—cheerleaders for a corrupt strongman toppled by another. Supporting despots is practically a family tradition in this case, just with more spray tan and dumber slogans. Maybe he just feels at home again, basking in the stench of strongman politics and sanctified greed.

Rubio’s face in that photo is what I’d call a masterclass in moral decomposition. He’s not really alive—he’s just a taxidermied prop wearing a government title. You can really see it in his eyes that have that sad embalmed glaze unique to men who’ve traded all their integrity for proximity to power and then forgot why they ever wanted either.

He looks, quite honestly, like he’s practicing for his role in Hell’s customer service department. Whatever spark of humanity he had is completely gone—smothered under lies, cheap cologne, party loyalty, and the sulfur stench of the deal he struck.

Simply put—pathetic.