As failure wafts through the halls of the State Department these days. It's not just the usual government building smell—that blend of old coffee, photocopier toner, and bureaucratic sweat. No, this is something more putrid, more insidious: the unmistakable odor of incompetence personified by our current Secretary of State, Marco Rubio.

When Donny McDumpstain appointed this diplomatic disaster to represent American interests abroad, those of us who'd been watching Rubio's career trajectory felt our stomachs lurch like we'd just swallowed spoiled milk. The bitter taste of impending catastrophe coated our tongues. Now, three months into this administration, that foreboding has crystallized into a fucking nightmare.

Remember when Rubio couldn't be bothered to show up for his actual job as a senator? The man's Senate attendance record during his failed presidential campaign was so abysmal it made a high school student with senioritis look like an attendance champion. The squeaking sound you hear isn't just his overpriced boots on the marble floors of the State Department—it's the sound of him pivoting away from responsibility.

"Rubio missed more votes than any other senator running for president," reported the Tampa Bay Times in 2016, counting 234 missed votes during his campaign—an astounding 35% absence rate while collecting his full taxpayer-funded salary.

Now this same work ethic has infiltrated our diplomatic corps. Career diplomats describe briefing rooms where Rubio's attention drifts like autumn leaves in a hurricane, his eyes glazed over while nations burn and alliances crumble. His fingers constantly tap at his phone—probably drafting another Bible verse tweet while ignoring the actual biblical proportions of the crises before him.

The hardness in your jaw when you clench your teeth in rage—that's the feeling that comes when watching Rubio's immigration stance shift like desert sand. First, he's a champion of comprehensive reform, co-authoring the Gang of Eight bill. Then, when the political winds change, he abandons it faster than a rat fleeing a sinking ship.

Now as Secretary of State, this weathervane approach to policy has real consequences. Diplomatic partners describe negotiating with Rubio as "trying to nail Jell-O to a wall." The frustration burns like acid reflux, eating away at America's credibility with every reversal.

"It's hard to know which Rubio will show up to meetings," confided one European diplomat, the tension audible in their voice. "The one who understands immigration complexities, or the one who panders to the harshest elements of his base."

During his political rise, Rubio's personal finances were a goddamn train wreck. Remember the GOP credit card he used for personal expenses? The foreclosure threats? The liquidated retirement account? The financial acumen of a teenager with their first credit card?

Now this financial genius represents us in economic discussions with global powerhouses. When Chinese officials discuss trade policy, they're facing a man who couldn't manage his own household budget. The embarrassment is palpable—a hot flush of shame that spreads across the face of America's economic reputation.

The metallic tang of hypocrisy fills the air whenever Rubio addresses Cuba policy. As the son of Cuban immigrants (though he famously embellished their exile story), he's positioned himself as the authority on Cuba relations. His hardline stance against normalization with Cuba played well in Florida, but as Secretary of State, this inflexibility has become a diplomatic anchor dragging behind our Latin American policy.

Regional leaders describe meetings with Rubio as "stepping back in time," his Cold War rhetoric clashing harshly against the realities of modern hemispheric relations. You can practically hear the grinding of diplomatic gears jamming whenever he enters a room with Latin American counterparts.

Remember when Rubio tried to sound tough about that Chinese spy balloon? "It was the size of three buses," he declared with the confidence of a child describing a monster under their bed. His exaggerated descriptions left a comic aftertaste that undermined serious security concerns.

Now, that same cartoonish approach to national security threats characterizes his entire diplomatic strategy. Foreign leaders describe briefings with Rubio as "surreal"—his grasp of complex geopolitical situations apparently limited to whatever Fox News chyron scrolled past that morning.

The coppery smell of blood should have changed Rubio after the Parkland shooting in his home state. Instead, the sticky sensation of NRA money kept his hands tied as he offered "thoughts and prayers" while rejecting meaningful gun safety measures.

This moral cowardice now extends to his handling of global human rights issues. When confronting authoritarian regimes about civilian casualties, Rubio's words ring as hollow as his post-shooting platitudes. Foreign ministers report the unnerving experience of watching him read statements on human suffering with all the emotional depth of someone ordering fast food.

Rubio's inflammatory rhetoric about Chinese influence in Latin America reverberates like a gong through diplomatic chambers. His warnings about "China's trojan horse" approach might score points on right-wing media, but in diplomatic circles, his alarmism creates the diplomatic equivalent of nails on a chalkboard.

"Secretary Rubio seems more interested in creating headlines than headway," noted one Brazilian official, the frustration evident in their clipped consonants and tight vowels. This approach has left the acrid smell of burnt bridges wafting across the hemisphere.

When it comes to Venezuela, Rubio's mouth runs faster than his brain. His statements about potential U.S. intervention created the diplomatic equivalent of stepping on a rake—the sharp smack of unintended consequences hitting America right in the face.

Regional partners report the disorienting experience of trying to follow Rubio's Venezuela policy, which changes with the erratic rhythm of a strobe light. "One week it's diplomatic pressure, the next it's veiled military threats," said one Colombian official, the exasperation weighing down each syllable.

The crashing sound you hear is Rubio's comments on Palestinian statehood colliding with decades of established U.S. policy. His statements generated international criticism that buzzed like angry hornets through diplomatic channels.

Middle Eastern diplomats describe discussions with Rubio on this issue as "like trying to have a conversation with someone who's reading from a different script"—his words disconnected from both historical context and current realities.

Perhaps most damaging is Rubio's approach to military aid conditions. His support for policies that upend regional stability creates friction like sandpaper on sunburned skin whenever he engages with affected nations.

"The Secretary seems to believe that throwing money and weapons at problems will solve them," one African diplomat observed, the bitterness in their voice as sharp as broken glass. "There's no strategy, just transactions."

As Marco Rubio continues his tenure as Secretary of State, the damage accumulates like plaque in arteries, slowly choking America's diplomatic health. Each day brings new evidence that Trumpy McButtface's appointment of this foreign policy fraudster was a catastrophic mistake.

The warning signs were there for anyone willing to see them: the absenteeism, the financial chaos, the policy flip-flops, the shallow understanding of complex issues. Now those warning signs have become flashing red alerts.

The international community watches with a mixture of pity and alarm as America's chief diplomat bumbles through global crises with all the skill and grace of a drunk elephant in a china shop. The crackling tension in diplomatic rooms, the sighs of frustration from career foreign service officers, the raised eyebrows of world leaders—all testify to the disaster that is Secretary Rubio.

For those of us who give a damn about America's standing in the world, watching Rubio's diplomatic demolition derby is painful—a deep, visceral ache that sits in the pit of your stomach like a stone. The question isn't whether he'll fail; it's how much damage he'll do before he's done.

And as for the rest of us? We're left with the bitter, metallic taste of dread as we watch a once-respected institution crumble under the weight of Rubio's spectacular incompetence.