“It’s like this,” he says, pumping his legs and bobbing his head to an inaudible beat. “You’re in the club. You’ve got a bottle of vodka. You’re standing up on the couches. You’ve got your right-hand man Puffy standing there. You’ve got Danny and Wilmer and all of our guys hanging out, and the f-ing girls are fighting to see who’s going to be behind the table here.” Kutcher points down to the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table. He’s gyrating now, his voice bellowing in full Kelso squeak, his body squished up against the invisible crowd. “In this area! Like, f-ing fighting! Like gouging other b*tches out of the way! And then you go, ‘All right, we’re going back to blah blah blah,’ and then you’re moving as a mass through the club, and you pick up about 15 or 20 more along the way. Now you’ve gotten into a car with, like, four select girls and you’re at the new space, and you just start certain things up. It was so ego-fulfilling. It was ********.”
“When your wife calls, you have to take it, no matter what you’re doing,”
On dressing with Demi
“How does this look?” When he replied, “It looks fantastic,” Demi would respond, “Well, I hate it.” Now each time his opinion is requested—and he is asked each time—he has learned to say, “‘How do you feel in it?’ That is the most important thing. Because if she feels good, you’re going to have a good night. If she doesn’t, you’re not.”
“I’ll go, ‘So you’re wearing brown?’” Kutcher says. “Then I know I’ve got to either go for a brown or khaki suit. You could go navy, too. If she’s wearing black, you just wear black. Matching is not her job. It’s yours. You’re the purse.”
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