Thread by @EnswellJones

Long story short, a magazine writer who had wronged some of my friends tweeted that his dream story was a profile of Carrot Top. So I called my Esquire editor, Peter, and said I’d always wanted to write a profile of Carrot Top. A few days later, I was on a plane to Las Vegas.

I first met Carrot Top—his real name is Scott—backstage at the Luxor, where he performs 240 nights a year. The first words out of Scott’s mouth were: “So what’s the joke?” He thought I must be there to rip him to shreds. I promised him I was not. I don’t think he believed me.

I watched him that night, and I laughed really, really hard. You might be thinking: Bullshit. You don’t know. I watched him, like, six times that week, and he always put on a great show. One night, a woman shit her pants. She laughed until she dropped a deuce right in her chair.

Early in his set, he made fun of himself before anyone else got the chance. He told a true story about a child coming up to him in P.F. Chang’s and asking if he was the real Carrot Top or an impersonator. “A Carrot Top impersonator?” Scott roared. “How fucking sad is that?”

Anyway, Scott finally understood I wasn’t out to get him, and we spent many happy days together. We did all sorts of crazy things with his crazy friends. We watched football with Vince Neil. We hung out with Steve Aoki and Vinnie Paul (RIP). Scott was really great and kind.

After his show one night, we went for dinner at Caesars with a guy named Porno Jeff. Jeff was just the kind of dude who made every situation better. (He’s called Porno Jeff because of some work he did on the side.) Scott’s phone buzzed. “Shania just texted me,” he said.

I was like, Shania… Twain? Sure enough, we had been summoned to Shania Twain’s villa behind Caesars. She was at the end of a two-year residency there, and she and Scott had become friends. We got picked up by a black SUV and driven to this palace behind the Palace.

It was, like, 11,000 square feet. It was so big, there was a billiard table in the hallway. Down that hall, I saw Shania dancing in her marble living room. She was dressed in black and looked spectacular. We walked back. There was the strangest collection of people with her.

Her new Swiss husband, Fred. Her sister, Carrie-Ann, down from Timmins. Bastian Baker, pictured, introduced to us as “the John Mayer of Switzerland.” Two other Swiss musicians, straight out of The Lost Boys. Carrot Top, Porno Jeff, and me. Now it was a party.

At some point, we headed outside to sit by the villa’s pool. Fred broke out champagne. Shania talked about how grateful she was for Las Vegas. She’d lost her first marriage, her voice, her confidence. Now she wrapped herself up in Fred’s jacket and said that she felt rebuilt.

One of the Swiss musicians suddenly decided it was time for a swim. He got naked and dived into the pool. So did the other Swiss musician and Bastian Baker. So did Scott. But the pool was freezing, so they all moved to the hot tub. “Come on in, dude,” Scott said to me.

Shania Twain was sitting there. Bastian Baker was Bastian Baker. Porno Jeff was Porno Jeff. Scott was in great shape, and he stood in the water, drinking champagne, the lights of Las Vegas shining behind him. And I was like: No. No one needs to see Naked Gimli in the hot tub.

Eventually we went back inside and talked the night away, like we were at summer camp. We were there long after the sun came up. When I think back on it today, it doesn’t seem real. Such a weird group of people in such a surreal place. Life can be an amazing joke all on its own.

But another of my feelings is regret. I should have jumped into that goddamn hot tub with both feet. I would today, if I somehow got that chance again. Who wants to remember being too shy, too self-conscious, and missing out on something fun? How fucking sad is that?