Daniel Humphrey, I love that messenger bag! Where on Earth did you get it? What on Earth does it contain? Dry, idiotically written reportage masquerading as fiction, one presumes. As long as you are investigating fathers, let me ask you this. Why is your father always in the kitchen? The improvised actions -- what we in the business call "the business" -- that keeps him in there is getting ridiculous. How many times can one wash a single Fiestaware plate before realizing one has finally succumbed to the lesser angels of one's own psychology? How many lonely nights whipping up dinners and sauces for a family that has rightfully abandoned one? Is Rufus becoming a shut-in? Can he no longer go out into the wild world of Brooklyn due to his slow realization of the epic fail that is he? Will next week find him hiding beneath the kitchen sink, inside a cupboard? Strumming a guitar and humming tunelessly to himself, perchance?
Daniel Humphrey, I love your little face. I never knew ferrets, even the most chiseled, could be so hot. But it is what's behind the face -- inside that pointy little noggin -- that interests me tonight. And it is what's in front of the face -- the endless stream of words administrating everyone else's experiences and emotions -- that I'm hearing now. Specifically, how it is that Rufus is pretending to be "cool" with the fact that his fifteen-year-old daughter Jennifer has moved in with a similarly tweenish supermodel who isn't even trying to hide the fact that she is balls-out crazy, which is all a ruse because in fact Rufus is not "cool" with this at all, because Rufus is not cool with anything, because Rufus is deeply, tragically, permanently, adorably, annoyingly uncool.
The ruse is intended to lull Jenny into a false sense of trust and respect for her father, in order to deceive her into thinking that her opinions or choices are in fact hers, and thus she will come home, subject to even more of Rufus's awful parenting. This is the most Rufussy plan Rufus has ever come up with,- like, why not stash some popsicles under a box, propped on a stick, tied with a string, leading to your finger, and then play some, I don't know, like... Miley Cyrus? And then let her siren's song lead your daughter to the box, which you will then cause to drop on her with a simple flick of the wrist, trapping her, and then all you have to do, if trepanation's not your scene, is electroshock her brain until she's drooling. And then you win. Which is, after all, the point of parenting: to remember always that your children are the enemy, and must be destroyed at all costs, lest they outstrip you.