Dear Sean Stewart:
We have a problem. That problem is you.
We're not talking about your whiny sense of self-entitlement. (Although please, for the benefit of America's eardrums, STFU.) We're not talking about your "career" as a reality show contestant. (Although we understand that may be as close to reality as you're likely to get.) We're not even talking about your "career" as a model. (Although, like Cher Horowitz would say: AS IF.)
Frankly, Sean, we're not even talking about the fact that you were party to the wreck of a sweet, black, $200,000 Bentley Continental GTC. Yes, that would be a mortal sin for any of us middle-class zhlubs, but your dad is Rod Stewart. He could afford to give you a new Bentley every month until you hit the age of 95 (which, at this rate, you won't do), so we understand that totaling a luxury ride isn't a big problem in your household. And besides, the Bentley was a rental, so BFD.
No, Sean, our problem has to do with the fact that you rented the Bentley, and yet, you weren't the one who crashed it. You let some chick sweet-talk her way behind the wheel. You have a fine-ass convertible like that on beautiful day, and you're not even going to drive it? Dude, you're either totally whipped or a total wuss. But likely both.