From the desk of Clive Owen:
Hello, bitches. Did you know that I’m in Scotland right now? I was just sitting in my London home, thinking about how Scottish ladies needed a little taste of The Clive Goodness, and so I packed my favorite tuxedo and jetted off. Look at the way I’m standing by this little piano. Doesn’t that make you hot? Look at the smug expression on my face? That’s because I know you’re picturing me naked right now. Aren’t you? You’re imagining your tongue on my chest RIGHT NOW, aren’t you?
I’m used to that. That’s why I do these dorky photo-ops beside pianos. I want to see how far I can take My Sexy. By the way, Prince Charles is around here somewhere. He’s wearing a kilt, for God’s sake. Do you know what would happen if I wore a kilt? Ladies would be dropping like flies. They would be crawling on the floor trying get a look at my biscuits. And that, ladies, is why I don’t wear kilts. Only tuxedos and suits for me, but I do make an effort to look dorky, just to see what I can get away with. As it turns out, I can do pretty much anything and ladies will still throw their panties at me in the street. I could do a duet with Justin Bieber and still get laid by a different woman every day for the next twenty years. But I don’t want that – I’m happily married. I have two daughters as well. I’m very happy. So all of this – the photos, The Sexy, the smug, dirty, awesome little smile playing on my lips, my slightly disheveled hair, looking like I just threw this tux on right after a naughty go-round, without even having the time or inclination to put on a pair of boxers – well, that’s all for you. Because I am a humanitarian.
You’re welcome.
Love, Clive
P.S. Did you want a preview of my sexy Bulgari ads, or are you already nearing a Clive Coma? Because I can wait to show you… no? Okay, here’s a little taste. You might need to get a towel.
Clive Owen on Sept. 5, 2010. Credit: Bauer-Griffin. Bulgari ads courtesy of Clive‘s fansite, Clive-Owen.org.
Just…awesome. Thanks Kaiser.
Yes please!
Beautiful, beautiful photos. *sigh*
I’m not even a man, and I want to buy the flippin’ cologne!!!
For a minute Kaiser I thought you were talking about yourself. 1st 1.5 sentences had me.
love this guy so much
HE IS SOOOOOOOO FINE
Oh my god….I want that!
So so pretty.
Clive and The Hamm is what I prefer my men to look like.
Men who look like they know how to shag. 🙂
Could handle seeing that in a kilt.
In my opinion he’s the hottest…. oh my.. my…
In my mind, that letter was really written from Clive to ME, ME, ME!!!! I’m still blushing just looking at him. 😉
I want him!!
Those ads are pretty hot. You could do a lot worse than hire Clive to hawk your wares.
That post just made my day so much better.
F*&!%ng great writing, Kaiser!
That was a hilarious read! Very cleverly done. The cherry on top was Clive. Those ads are delicious. That’s what those silly photoshopped D & G ads with Matthew Mc tried to make happen. All they needed was the CLIVE!
Clive is so much hotter than Gerard Butler, it’s not even funny. I wish Clive had been made James Bond, because then I would actually have seen my first James Bond flick, which I have never condescended to do. That was a grave error, not choosing Clive. The fact that he’s faithful to his wife only makes him hotter, in my book. Cheating assholes or womanizing assholes are just not sexy to me.
Kaiser, you are hilarious lol.
And thanks for the Clive post! So dreamy, sigh.
Clive!
*passes out*
*wakes up under the harpsichord*
Thank you, Nanea, for recognising that IT IS NOT A PIANO, DAMMIT!!!!! Acoustic pianos never have two layers of keyboards. It’s a dual-manual harpsichord.
Anyway, thanks to this site, I have developed an appreciation for attractive older men. I’m eighteen. Maybe this isn’t the best idea? Oh well. I want to lick him.
i’m young too but i’ve loved clive since… forever! just, everything about him.
and your ‘letter’ was hilarious!
Nobody s/b THIS HOT!!!!!!! He’s the reason why I DO wear men’s cologne besides my husband and WHERE I apply it is another story. WOOT!!!! God, I love this man.