Here is where you can address your questions to Dr. Clive Owen, surly therapist and author of Bugger Off, You Neurotic Wanker. 

Bastards.

Bastards, the lot of you. Especially the women. Women are right bastards.

---

Dear Dr. Clive,

I've been thinking [the remainder has been censored for wankery]

Hopefully,

Stephenie

Dear Stephenie,

Swallow it.

Fondly,

Dr. Clive

Dear Dr. Clive,

Where'd you go?

Worried,

Concerned Fangirl

---

Dear Fangirl,

On holiday.

Fucking needy cow.

Not well-rested enough,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you wanky tosser.

Dear Dr. Clive,

How can I tell if those around me are lying? I'm starting to think my girlfriend, my auxiliary girlfriend, my emergency backup girlfriend and even you are not telling me all of the truth anymore (it was their "No, really, Porkers the Dog has gone to a better place, and that better place is Sedona" that made me suspicious; I mean, wouldn't Tempe be a better choice?).

Discombobulated,

Tertiary in Tucson

---

Dear Tert,

Everyone lies except me. I can't be arsed to lie and then make up cover stories to bolster the lying. So if you are dealing with someone who is not, in fact, me, he or she is a right fucking fibber and will steal all your money and ejaculate all over your prized possessions.

Actually, I'll do that too, but I'll be honest about having done it.

Candidly,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you gullible sod.

Dear Dr Clive,

This extraordinarily charming older man I seduced is now head-over-heels for a young blonde rich aristocratic violent asshole who's really just using him as a catspaw in a game of chicken with his old ugly rich aristocratic violent asshole dad. The way my friend carries on about Al's "slim gilt soul," I'm afraid he'll wind up in gaol. What do I do?

Beseechingly,

R Ross

PS You can really work a white suit, man.

---

Dear R,

Take photographs of Mr. Blonde Poof Aristo getting buggered by some brainless rent boy and deliver said photographs to Mr. Arsehole Aristo Sr. If you can, get photographs of Mr. Arsehole Aristo Sr.'s reaction and deliver them to your friend. Make LOLMarquess macros out of them and — Wait, I forgot you haven't got the Internet yet. So fuck that bit.

Advise your friend to stay well shut of this ponce, he's toxic and a rubbish poet to boot. 'Slim gilt soul' my hairy arse.

Cordially,

Dr. Clive

PS: Obviously.

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you whinging prat.

Dear Dr. Clive,

My three friends and I recently went on a canoeing trip in the South; en route, we had an unfortunate altercation with some locals. For future reference, is there any successful medical treatment for an arrow to the throat/upper chest area?

-L.

---

Dear L.,

Yes. Don't fucking well get yourself shot with an arrow in the throat/upper chest area.

Tosser.

Clinically,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question or I will indeed make you squeal like a pig.

Who left the fucking oven on?

8:14pm here and still 82 bloody degrees. Piss it. I'm fucking off to the pub for the rest of the night. I'll get to your naff little questions tomorrow. If you're lucky.

Dear Dr. Clive,

I've just been assigned by a Major Magazine to go to Las Vegas and write about an off-road motorcycle race. This fat Samoan guy, at least I think he's Samoan, wants to tag along. But I've started having Visions of the Apocalypse, and I've seen the American Dream drop her Panties like a $10 whore. Should I go to Vegas or just stay home?

- Dr. Gonzo

---

Dear Gonzo,

Nah. Stay home, take lots of drugs, make the whole thing up, and sell it to gullible millions as a savage journey to the heart of the American dream.

Fondly,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you pigfucker.

Dear Dr Clive,

I live next door to this really rich guy. He's basically perfect. He's hot, he's famous, he's really really nice. Plus, he keeps inviting me to do stuff with him, like ride in his private plane (is that a come on? I'm not sure...) The only problem is, he's head over heels for my cousin, who keeps pushing this lez golf star on me. Oh, and she's married to this like, white supremacist asshole (my cousin, not the lesbian). Who's cheating on her. What should I do?

Love,

Lonely in West Egg

---

Dear Egg,

Don't get too attached to the rich wanker. Mechanic 1, Playboy 0.

Don't ask how I know these things. I'm a fucking professional.

Professionally,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you malodorous twit.

Dear Dr Clive,

I'm in a relationship with this great guy. He's really famous, has a great athlete's body, there's this unique scar on his forehead, and his green eyes are to die for. Only, I think he's having an affair with this blonde prick who he swears is his eternal enemy. What should I do?

Signed,
Bothered in The Burrow

---

Dear Buggered,

Forehead scars make excellent targets.

Once that's sorted, go after the blonde wanker. Piss in his peroxide.

Conspiratorially,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you poof.

Dear Dr. Clive;

My girlfriend wants to hold hands but I don't think I'm ready to touch another human being yet. How do I tell her no while effectively preventing her from seeing other guys?

Signed,
Teddy Roosevelt

---

Dear Ted,

You can't. Give her up and resign yourself to wanking into a plate of lukewarm pasta for the rest of your rubbish life. Or kill yourself. Either would be suitable.

I fucking give up,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you minge.

Dear Dr. Clive,

I'm self-employed, and live in a small town; I recently became involved with a lovely woman- she's European, and a singer- and her adorable small son. Then problem is, I think she's seeing someone else- someone called "Jeffrey." My question is- should I sit down and have a cordial drink with this person (although he prefers Heineken to a respectable beer such as Pabst Blue Ribbon), or should I do a lot of inhalants, drag the kid out to the countryside, and have a lot of my mysterious friends look on as I kick his ass?

Confused,

Frank

---

Dear Frank,

The latter.

And for fuck's sake, don't open any closets. In fact, have one of your men empty a clip into the closet door of any room you step into.

By the way, how's your fuck?

Frankly,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question. I can hear your fucking radio, you stupid shit.

Dear Dr Clive,

I regularly get terrible migraines. What should I do about them?

Signed,

Stricken in Seattle

---

Dear Squinty McKnifeskull,

First off, if you're on the Pill, get the fuck off it. Women who suffer migraines are eight times more likely to have a stroke if they're on the Pill.

Second, it depends what kind of migraine you suffer from. I can't properly prescribe a treatment without knowing that. Go here for starters, if you haven't already.

Third, stop reading rubbish about naff vampires and their twatty girlfriends. You fill your head with that piss and it'll hit back at you.

Hope this helps,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you tosser.

Dear Dr Clive,

I starred in this really shitty movie called "P.S. I Love You" and now I'm too embarassed to leave the house.

Dr Clive, what was I thinking? Can you offer any suggestions on how I might pick a decent movie?

Yours,
Gerard Butler

---

Dear Gerard,

Mate, you've starred in nothing but crap movies. There's no hope for you. You are a twat and shall remain one indefinitely.

Contemptuously,

Dr. Clive

PS: 300 was fucking poncey rubbish.

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you tit.

Dr. Clive,

I doubt your existence, your experience and, frankly, your choice of LJ style: your putting on pink and daisies is like the exact opposite of a venomless snake wearing the stripes of one of its toxic breathern. Nevertheless, I'm desperate.

I need you to proscribe me a slice of chocolate cake as a mood elevator.

Hopefully,
mswyrr

PS I don't want to hear any cliched, misogynistic bullshit about PMS chocolate cravings or dress sizes. Either give me my damn medical justification for cake or kindly keep your big gob shut about this particular inquiry.

---

Dear Microsoft Wordyrr,

You don't need cake. What you need is a right, definitive rogering.

Good luck with that though. Pissy little bint.

Cordially,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you whinging little git.

Dear Dr Clive,

My best friend Julie told me you give the best advice and you're really hot, so please, help me! My dad died and left a really stupid will that says anyone who wants to marry me has to pick the right one of three caskets, made of gold, silver, and lead. If the guy makes the wrong choice he never gets to get married, to me or anyone else. As you can imagine this is putting a real crimp in my so-called love life. I really like this one guy, but I'm not allowed to give him any hints. What am I going to do?

PS If you can help me out I'll tell my friend Jessie. Her father is going nuts because she's going out with a goy.

PPS What do you think of law school?

---

Dear Portia,

Oh, for fuck's sake, tell him it's in the bloody lead casket and have done with it.

On second thought, if he's daft enough to go along with this shite, he deserves to die a virgin. Tell him gold.

Fondly,

Dr. Clive

PS: At least he isn't a Moor.

PPS: Why not? You can't be worse at it than most of the tossers that go in.

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you pillock.

Dear Dr. Clive,

I have a terrible problem! I thought I was totally in love with this guy I met at my new school, in this awful place where it rains all the time, since he had super-sparkly smooth skin and icy lips and tawny eyes and told me nice things like I smelled appallingly luscious, like freesias or something. Also nobody else would ever talk to me, because the boys were all too in love with me and all the girls were jealous. But I don't think he's ever going to do more than kiss me, and I think I'm truly in love with my best friend instead, who's a werewolf and had a big growth spurt if you know what I mean (and I know you do, you're a man of the world and all).

PS. If a boy keeps telling you he doesn't want to have sex because he won't be able to control himself, does that mean he's gay?

Sincerely,

Klutzy in Klamath, Definitely Nowhere Near Forks

---

Dear Mary Sue McFaghag,

Shag the werewolf and kick Sparkle Boy in the bollocks. If he's got any.

Resignedly,

Dr. Clive

PS: Aye, he's a right poofter, that one.

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question. Yes, this means you. No, I'm not going to be nicer because there are more of you. Fuck all you lot, I'm off for some crisps.

Dear Dr. Clive,

I really like this girl I go to school with. She smells appallingly luscious, like freesias or something, and it's all I can do not to jump on her in chem lab and drink her blood. But if I did that, I'd mess things up for my family, and also I'd have no prom date. How can I stave off my throbbing biological urges long enough to go to prom in style?

Yours truly,

Frantic in Forks

P.S. Also I think I might be gay.

---

Dear Sparkly Ponce,

You're gay. And wanky.

Twilightly,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, especially if you're some poofy vampire.

Dear Dr. Clive,

I still maintain that Goose couldn't have died the way he did in Top Gun. Couldn't his death have been something more plausible? And dude, you've worked with Jerry Bruckheimer (before, of course, you became a doctor), can't you talk some sense into him so he doesn't violate the laws of nature again? Or at least doesn't make Kangeroo Jack Too?

- chris_walsh

---

Dear chris_walsh,

What the fuck are you on about, mate?

Confusedly,

Dr. Clive

---

Got a question? Need some advice? Comment here. Do not use this entry's comments to ask a new question, you minge.