by Gavin Edwards for Rolling Stone magazine
Ashton Kutcher lives at the end of a hilly Los Angeles cul-de-sac. In the driveway, there's a Land Rover, a vintage Chevy El Camino truck and a Jet Ski. I ring the doorbell at 3 p.m. sharp on a Friday. The door opens to reveal a six-foot-three man with dark skin, dreadlocks and a white wrestling mask covering his face. This is not what I expected."Hi. I'm Mr. Wrestling No. 3," he says. "Come on upstairs." I follow him into a small office, wondering whether I have the right house, looking around for hidden cameras that might be recording this scene for Punk'd. "We had a crazy, crazy party last night," says Mr. Wrestling No. 3. "There were midgets, there were some fat chicks in the pool."
Mr. Wrestling No. 3 takes a seat behind the desk, where he talks about his plans for dominating the WWE. Kutcher has said that the goal of Punk'd is to get the victims to cry or throw a punch; I decide to enjoy the ride. I ask Mr. Wrestling No. 3 what his signature move is.
"The jackknife power bong," he says. "What are you doing?" Kutcher is standing in the doorway of the office, wearing pinstripe pants and no shirt. Apparently, this was a freelance prank.
A few minutes later, Kutcher has put on a shirt and Mr. Wrestling No. 3 has removed his mask, revealing T.J. Jefferson, Kutcher's roommate and personal assistant. There are no hidden cameras today. Kutcher tells me about a successful prank he pulled the day before in Las Vegas: He punk'd Pink, making her think that she was getting busted because her boyfriend had been running a motorcycle chop shop. "She was losing her shit," says a pleased Kutcher.
Have any of the celebrities put through the Punk'd emotional wringer sought revenge on Kutcher? He grins."You can't bullshit a bullshitter."
"Everyone's gunning for Ashton now," Goldberg tells me later on. "If we were going to get him, it would have to be the most elaborate bit: ten snipers breaking through his windows with ropes and double-barreled shotguns. And it wouldn't work if he was alone -- he knows too much about where the hidden cameras are set up. He'd have to have a girl in bed with him."
As Kutcher gives me the guided tour of the house -- pool, tennis court, a dog named Mr. Bojangles -- he tells me about the last time heavy-duty firepower paid a visit to his property. That was when he brought home President George W. Bush's twin daughters, and the Secret Service came along for the ride. About a year and a half ago, Kutcher went to a Nike party with some friends. When his friend Matt spotted Jenna and Barbara Bush, Matt graphically described his amorous intent, oblivious to the glares of the Secret Service agents: "I'd fucking nail the shit out of that bitch!"
"My God, he was not shutting up," says Kutcher. Nevertheless, Ashton met the twins, who asked what he was doing after the party. Everyone ended up going back to Kutcher's house, although he insisted the Secret Service stay outside. "So we're hanging out," Kutcher says. "The Bushes were underage-drinking at my house. When I checked outside, one of the Secret Service guys asked me if they'd be spending the night. I said no. And then I go upstairs to see another friend and I can smell the green wafting out under his door. I open the door, and there he is smoking out the Bush twins on his hookah."
The next morning, Kutcher picked up his phone -- and didn't get a dial tone. He assumes that ever since the Bushes' visit, the Secret Service has had his phone tapped.