I'm a man and I just slept with Marco Rubio. Marco didn't say a word the whole time and he hardly looked at me—and he was all thumbs.

Want the details?

I was flying Miami-LAX, and I noticed my generic-looking businessman seat-mate was busy on his phone, so I didn't pay much attention, and didn't do my usual introduction saying it was ok to tap me awake or jump over whenever he wanted to get out. Then the wheels started clicking and I realized is was Marco Rubio, one of the seventeen republican candidates for president! The guy being touted as a top tier candidate/potential nominee if/when the GOP get tired of being Trump'd.

He didn't say a word the whole flight. Initially taking a nap (me too), then not eating his breakfast or having anything to drink (is that why he's so famously parched?), until he asked for coffee when he woke up. Then he got out his iPad and started working it rapidly with his thumbs, going thru what appeared to be sports & political sites, including Drudge Report.

My question: Should I have engaged him? And, if so, what should I have said? My impression is that he's a Knows Better/Doesn't Do Better type (he must know that climate change is for real, that we needed to end the ridiculous embargo of Cuba, that same-sex marriage isn't a threat), so "educating" him is of little value. So should I have said something? Engaged or not?

First Class Compatriot

P.S. Just remember, Dan, that if by some off chance he gets to be prez, I slept with him first!

As I read your letter, FCC, I was thinking... yeah, you slept with/beside Marco Rubio. Am I supposed to take your word for that? And then I scrolled all the way down and...

...you have proof.

So, hey, you shared a flight with a sleeping Marco Rubio. But before I answer your question—should you have engaged with him?—let's review my rules for flying. There are only three...

1. Shut the fuck up.

2. Close the fucking window shade.

3. Shut the fuck up.

Introductions are clearly forbidden by rules number one and three. There's no need or excuse for introductions after you're seated on an airplane. (If the person sitting next to the window doesn't know to tap, step over, and excuse themselves, FCC, they're too stupid to find their way on an airplane in the first place.) Introductions on airplanes accomplish just one thing: The fill the person to whom you've just introduced yourself with dread. Someone subjected to an introduction will spend the rest of the flight worrying about whether they've just sat down next to most feared people in the skies after terrorists and infants: talkers. And, I'm sorry, but it doesn't matter if the introducer shuts up after he makes an unnecessary and unwelcome introduction. Because someone who talked to you on a flight—someone who broke rules number one and three before the plane even took off—could at any moment start talking to you again. The introducer thereby forces the introducee to spend the rest of the flight worrying that even a stray moment of eye contact could suck them into a conversation about golf or grandchildren or CrossFit.

The only exception to rules number one and three? When you've been seated next to Marco Rubio.

Marco Rubio, like everyone else running for president, is constantly going on about what he's hearing from "average, ordinary Americans" as he travels back and forth between Iowa and New Hampshire, as he strolls down the hall from the greenroom of The O'Reilly Factor ("The No Spin Zone") to the greenroom of Fox and Friends ("The So Dim Zone"), and as his tongue flits from Charles Koch's asshole to David Koch's asshole and back again. If Rubio is going to talk about chance encounters with "average, ordinary Americans," then average, ordinary Americans who haven't been vetted by the Rubio campaign for some bogus "town hall" can go ahead and seize the opportunity of, say, a chance encounter with Rubio (or Bush or Cruz or Paul or whoever) on a long flight, at a cozy urinal, or in a funky sex dungeon in Berlin.

So in answer to your question, FCC: Yes, I think you should've engaged with Rubio. You could've told him that's he wrong about climate change and that his denialism is dangerous (Miami is sinking under the waves!); you could've told him that his jingoistic opposition to reestablishing diplomatic relations with Cuba was both stupid and "out of step with the mainstream, as they say (Americans back it by wide margins); and you could've told him that his retrograde/bigoted/indefensible position on marriage equality isn't exactly forward thinking (Rubio can't represent a "new generation" while pandering to the bigotry and fear of the old, fearful, and blessedly not immortal generation of GOP voters)

And most importantly, you should've challenged him on his position on abortion.

At the first GOP debate Rubio said he opposed abortion even in the cases of rape and incest. (Rubio pissily denied ever having supported an exceptions for rape an incest—despite having cosponsored an abortion ban that included exceptions for rape and incest—and Rubio also didn't object when Scott Walker said that he would "let a mother die" before allowing her to have an abortion.) Here's the question you could've put to Rubio (it's the question I'll put to him if get the chance): "You have two daughters, Sen. Rubio. If one of your daughters was raped and impregnated, would you deny her an abortion and force her to carry her rapist's baby to term? If one of your daughters needed an abortion to save her life, would you, like Scott Walker, stand by and let your own daughter die?"

If you had asked that question in a loud enough tone of voice, FCC, a mini-town-hall meeting would've instantly broken out in the first class compartment of your Miami-LAX flight. And if you or another passenger had the good sense to film Rubio's response, FCC, you would've made national news instead of just making the SLLOTD.

And finally, dear readers, I recognize the irony here: Marco Rubio followed all the rules on that flight: Rubio shut the fuck up, Rubio closed his window shade, Rubio shut the fuck up. But the rules don't apply to an average, ordinary American who find himself seated next to someone who's running for president.