The nineteen-hour event was sponsored by global toy giant BB FunCorp and fantastic Internet social networking tool Fluffer, in keeping with an emerging trend in which mainstream media organizations do the most adorable thing and try to control our thoughts.

Ice cream was 99 cents.

As Romney, Perry, and the other 8 dudes and one dudette stood cemented to the stage, I licked my ice cream.

It was cool in the barn, but the breath of the family sitting behind me melted my cream and I had to lick faster and faster to keep up with the melting? If you’ve ever eaten ice cream you know what I mean.

Anyway, Romney vouched for himself over and over, repeating, “I’m a great dude. I’m from Romulus. We have…uh…gigantic spacecraft that can destroy the earth….I have three peni (penises).”

“There are a lot of reasons not to elect me,” Mr Romney ejaculated. “One reason to elect me is I know what I stand for. I’ve written it down. Words have meaning. Some words rhyme. Some don’t. Some begin with capital letters. Yep.”

Mitt Romney, Michele Bachmann, Newt Gingrich, and Rick Santorum all took shots at Rick Perry’s record on illegal immigration. Bachmann said that Texas’s law allowing in-state tuition for the children of illegal immigrants acted like a “magnet” for illegal immigrants.

Perry’s response was forceful and personal. “I don’t think you have a heart,” Perry told his critics. “I like that.”

Without saying anything, it was hard to tell where other candidates like House Speaker Newt Gingrich stood on stuff.

“Sometimes I just don’t feel like talking,” Gingrich said after the debate. “I feel like talking now, but everybody’s gone home,” he went on.

Rep Michelle Bachmann of Minnesota reminds me of Barbara Bachmann, who is Ringo Starr‘s wife. For people under 50, she doesn’t remind you of anyone.

Rep Ron Paul of Texas, former New Mexico Gov Gary Johnson, businessman Herman Cain and former Utah Gov Jon Huntsman came to the master debate too, but instead of networking they just stood around awkwardly and nursed their drinks.

“I forgot my buisness card, but you can connect with me over LinkedIn,” quipped Johnson.
“No, I’m totally being serious,” he went on.

Rick (The Dick) Santorum told a gay soldier serving openly in Iraq that sex had no place in the military. Legally, he was right: although you can tell people your what you wanna do with them, if you get caught doin’ it with ‘em your pee-pee will get whacked. And just like the last master debate, he kept referring to himself as “Rick Santorum”. Vice presidential material, this one.

Herman Cain was declared the surprise winner of the debate, to the shock and awe of many Republican faithful. Does this mean anything? Well, yes: he sounds better than rest, at least in the way that he doesn’t seem to be flat out lying about everything. And no, because if you look back at prior Republican master debates in the last few elections, it’s very often Ron Paul who was selected as the winner. And he ain’t ever gonna be president.

Am I right?

Top models in Tokyo, Bahrain, and Moscow are staying thin by snorting cocaine.

“I know a top model – we’ll call her Mercienne Phong – although her real name is Mercianne Phong, with an ‘a’ – who stays up all night long snorting cocaine in order to stay thin and trim for the runway,” ejaculated BBFunCorp Models rep Bronwyn Close, 30, spraying tiny spit diamonds into my contacts as she struggled to be heard above the blast of Jay-Z’s Empire State of Mind.

But why would a girl already as beautiful as Mercienne want to go and ruin her life by-

“Oh, don’t trot out that old chestnut. Despite all the crackheads and lowlifes you’ve seen stumbling all across your pathway and sprawled all over downtown, cemented in their own waste, cocaine is quite a glamorous drug when used by glamorous people.”

Top models snort the blow straight off each others’ backs and crevices. Is there any risk of other infectious disease cropping up as a result of this?

“Yes, especially if one top model forgets to clean their vuvuzela. Then we get a domino effect and the whole Playboy Mansion winds up with cooties on its face.”

Top models are snorting up to 50,000 millisieverts of cocaine per hour, the Brutal Times has learned.

Even more damning, a recent survery conducted by prestigious Caribbean think tank MyGoodies has uncovered that 4 out of 5 top models may be internalizing their external feelings about the snorting, causing them to miss stuff like go sees.

“Top models, just like unattractive people like yourself, are unable to absorb more than 5 millisieverts of cocoa leaf into their vuvuzela,” fluffed  Constable Maurice Bo, 19, via the social networking tool Fluffer. “After that, they just become a parody of something,” he went on.

Thin top models are needed by countries to show clothes and drive more than 85% of the world’s economy by generating huge cocaine sales. Families and small businesses rely on the thin top models thirst for cocoa to keep them in designer jeans. Other than Canaduh, where locals hunt giraffe to pay for their Julian Assange jeans, every country in the world swaps jeans for cocoa in some alley or another.

“The sphinx-like demeanor of some top models belies the fact that most of them are in either pre-, mid-, or post-snort mode of operation,” tried Waseda University Professor Rant Foaming, 50. “You…you…show me one…one model…one top model…and I’ll show you a dozen reasons why that young lady has tried or needs to try cocaine,” he went on.

“Please show me that one model,” he kept foaming.

But aren’t there other ways for top models to keep the pounds from logging on?

“Unfortunately, at this juncture, even the most brilliant brains at Apple and Google have failed to think up anything quite as good as cocoa to keep our country’s models thin and trim,” lamented Lana Ektalli, 66, “so I guess we as people who care deeply about these issues have to look our top models in the eye and say, ‘If you want to be thin, you better start snorting this blow here early, take it or leave it.’”

Understand?!?

“They’ll eat them this year and they’re’ll be no turning back,”  Mr Nostradamus sexted, via the great social networking tool Fluffer.

The ramifications of so much more PBJ (peanut butter pretoleum jelly) being consumed by the world’s diverse peoples are…what are they?

“No one you know’s going to be affected,” explained The Brutal Times’ own personal jesus, Business Jesus, 23. “But you are going to witness the steady capsize of world financial markets, leading to upackaged anarchy, ferocious animals being let loose from zoos and a number of the weak being consumed by the hungrier of those freed zoo animals, especially by the tigers.”

Peanut butter is made from peanuts after it has hatched from the butter. The chrysallis then flies away. Usually it doesn’t come back.

Workers on a farm questioned by The Brutal Times demanded to be compensated or at least given a map to let them know where they were.

Jam comes from just under the trees. You have to dig there right after it rains, and to tell the truth there’s usually worms in there that some of the bigger companies scoop out so you don’t barf when you open the jam jar. The smaller organic jam producer’s like Henry’s Walnut Sauce? They just leave them in there.

When lots of people like things the things become popular and some people make money off that.

Some pop cultures use peanut butter and jam as an holy sacrament in some kind of rite. Oh boy, so boring, right?

Despite everyone owning an iPhone on the Internet there are some guys n’ gals whom’ve never even seen a peanut butter and jam sandwich.

“True, but that’s about to change,” ejaculated Mr Nostradamus, warming to his theme, “and again, you’re not going to meet those people, and even if you do, they’re not real to you, right? Living in the era which we do now it’s all become abstracted so much that if we’re honest with ourselves we’re not going to care about people seeing or eating a PBJ sandwich for the first time, unless we’re those people, which we’re not, right?”

Have we lost something because of that?

“Yes, but we because we don’t realize what we’ve lost it’s all right.”

Do you go into a trance when you make these predictions?

“No, I sort of bounce up and down.”

Bounce?

“Exactly.”

Understand?!?

Town criers and barely able to function baristas peppered Mrs. Clinton, whom also goes by the nom de plume Hillary, with questions about her height, favorite foods, and iPod contents. But the pleasant atmosphere was predictably shock-rocked when Clinton received an unscreened question via the fabulous Internet social networking service Fluffer, asking yet again, if she will run for president in 2012.

“No, no, no, no, no – No I will not,” Mrs. Clinton insisted, in response to the unscripted Fluff, sent by Chinese democracy dissident Richard Penn, 51, who is serving a life sentence somewhere in the People’s Republic for once upon a time in 1997 advocating a 2 party political system.

“How about in 2016?” pressed Brutal Times intern Pfaff Onclear, 15, in between bites of a medium chicken falafel.

“Well, there – as you know, Pfaff – that looks delicious – there probably isn’t going to be a 2016, but if there is I certainly won’t be running for president at that junction, Pfaff.”

And on it went. The questions come at a potentially sensitive time for Clinton, whom like anyone anywhere has a sensitive side, and when you get right down to it, prefers routine and structure to leading an unscripted life of threesomes and prescription drugs. Plus, as with so much somewhere, some things happen, get forgotten and maybe happen again? All afternoon, and into the next day, and the wee hours of in your face, shouts were heard and meanings to them were assigned, dropped and reassigned. And then… just as everyone had given up and was ready for a bedtime snack I remembered how there was no other choice other than Sarah Palin and McCain for president, since America certainly is never gonna elect a Romulan.

“What about…2110?”

“Styles, I’ll be 162 years old then.”

“And so will I – but you haven’t answered my question, lady”

“Well, I think – with all due respect to your question, Mr. Cradgerock – and that cheese falafel looks delicious – I think it’s too early to…to start talking about 2110, and things that are…a hundred and one years down the road.”

“OK, sure. Then, how about 2112? You’d be a fresh face by then.”

“Well, I think it is something that, given the right set of circumstances, and if there was some way Barack could be totally humiliated and made to apologize in some eternal way, that I would consent to do that.”

Understand?

“Yeah, we finally figured out what was missing with the earlier 569,808 best of Beatles releases,” said long-time Beatles producer and confidante George Martin, from his villa in sunny Las Vegas, Sunday. “Those fucking Harrison and Lennon songs,” he went on.

“We cut ‘Come Together’, ‘I am The Walrus’, ‘Taxman’, ‘Something’, ‘Revolution’, ‘Yer Blues’, ‘Dear Prudence’, ‘In my Life’, ‘While my Guitar Gently Weeps’ and a whole slew of other losers,” confirmed Beatles engineer Geoff Emerick only seconds later, via the fabulous Internet social networking tool, Twitter.

Folks are like cramming The Beatles’ box set down their own throats they’re so overjoyed with the results of the overly-anticipated mucking about with past perfection.

“I would say, and this definition is usually reserved for Christmas, as ah, a way of sort of defining Christmas, that this box set is the very definition of ‘overjoy’, meaning ‘to experience too much joy’, which of course is the aim of our capitalist society as endorsed by President Obama,” said Ray Goolens, a shopper at Best Buy.

Gotcha.

Anything else?

“Yes, the mono versions of the twenty billion Beatles tracks have been remixed so that you’ll only hear Paul and Ringo in the mix,” explained Mr Martin, who as I told you before is that guy who produced The Beatles and now keeps producing them long long after they’re dead.

Any plans for the Lennon and Harrison tracks? Can’t the be recycled, for a better world for you and me?

“Well, I may find room for some of them on my new Tupac release, but…we’ll see,” he teased.

Or did he?

“We think he may be dead,” said Richard Wagoner, a spokesperson for the People’s Republic of China.

Most town criers in cities around the globe reported Mr Brown perished over a year ago, yet China held off on rendering a decision on the rumors until today.

Western media outlets have often criticized the Communist nation for its censorship of news outside the country.

Chinese authorities denied censorship played any role in the delay to decide whether Brown had passed or not.

“As you know Chinese are cautious. We don’t like to make hasty decisions like to invade Iraq in just 48 hours notice and so on – it is very impolite,” explained Mr Wagoner, gripping my arm.

Ignorant foreigners often confuse censorship with fact-checking, explained Beijing University Professor of Journalism Ray Goolens who studies Chinese in Starbucks coffee restaurants in his free time.

“Americans in particular are the worst,” Indiana native Goolens says, wiping foam off his upper lip. “The Chinese have the best news organizations on the Earth; unlike you guys they put in the time to check their facts so that when they tell you ‘James Brown is Dead’ you can better be sure that you’re not going to see James Brown walking around your local Circle K in the middle of the night chewing on a Slurpee or something,” he went on.

Stories of celebrity deaths are often shrieked by unpaid town criers in most big US cities as soon as any hint of their passing has been picked up by teenagers and their parents and grandparents using the fabulous online social networking tool Fluffer.

“I think they should shoot the town criers,” said Goolens. “That kind of racket wouldn’t last five minutes over here,” he boasted.

Agreed.

The People’s Republic News Service says Mr Brown died this morning in his sleep, in his Beijing home.

“It was death that killed him – death,” explained Chief Beijing Medical Examiner Hortense Cable.

No further details were available at press time.

The maverick US soul singer wowed millions with his explicit lyrics and tussles with the cops.

The mythic album “Thom Steps Out,” was recorded at the height of the Heads’ radioactive career, just after the release of their semen album, “Pablo’s Honey” in 1986.

Producer Phil Spector who is now in Sing Sing Prison in Los Angeles’ Sing Sing Correctional Facility receiving guidance oversaw the missing of the album’s laff track and pointed an AK-47 at Yorke during most of the album’s fourteen month long session.

“Phil misplaced the master tapes, apparently leaving them under a box of Kleenex,” confirmed Spector’s buxom bride Rachel Spector. “I came across them one day when I was looking for something with which to blow my nose.”

At that time Ms. Spector had the flu.

Details of the triple album are sketchy but a debate is raging online on such great social networking inventions as FaceBook and Fluffer and Hotmail.

Many in Iran took a time out from revolutioning to Fluff and Face online in search of track listings or illegal download opportunities from Mr. Yorke’s recording.

“When I download an album illegally I express my freedom,” said Larry Wilson, 35, a barista at a Tehran Starbucks.

Likewise North Korea’s head honcho Kim Il Jong was absent from war strategy sessions for most of the afternoon and rumored to be online himself conducting Google searches for the Thom Yorke laugh bonanza.

“Kim Jong has the funniest sense of humor in the world,” intoned North Korea’s official news agency, Reuters. “He is much funnier than Obama, who is wooden, awkward and uptight,” it went on.

Interesting.

Although The Brutal Times has obtained a copy of  Thom Steps Out and listened to most of it while vacuuming the apartment and texting various people and totaling up the household bills, it would be improper to reveal much about it, less you refrain from its purchase and decline Mr. Yorke’s record company of its blood money.

But here’s some of what you can expect:

THOM: Hey….What do you call the uh, the…What do you call the ah grass that ah the baseball players stand on ah in the ah field there in Cuba?

AUDIENCE: (tittering, no response to query)

THOM: Ah…it’s ah…Cas-tro turf.

Pause.

AUDIENCE: Oh-ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha!

Etc.

Solid gold.

Jessie is one of my offline friends so it’s a shock that she met Barack online. I honestly didn’t even know if she had an FaceBook account until another friend who I know from online Fluffered me that Jessie san had been Facing Barack for months!!! Oh my god I pooped my pants!!!

Jessie is so outgoing likes campfires and the president.

I don’t think she voted though.

Jessie’s dad Brad has casks of Edgar Allan Poe wine and we get stoned off it when he goes out.

Yeah – Jessie she’s sexting… Barack Obama, that’s who!!! Whoopie oh my god!!!

But every time I look at a book it just puts me to sleep. About the longest thing I can bear to read is a breakfast recipe.

One of my keypal e-friends on Fluffer kept prodding me and prodding me to read that new book by what’sherface. Talk about a touching gesture.

Talk about fuckin’ rude!

Books are made by lonelyass losers for other lonelyass losers.

Me, I like to spend my Saturday nights bombed. And let me tell you, it’s pretty freakin’ hard to hold a book in your hand when you’re out on the dancefloor with someone’s hands in your pants.

Harharharharhar!

Anyway, someone gave me Harry Potter’s new book for my birthday because they thought it would teach me a lesson.

Fat chance! I ripped the cover off, put it in the microwave and fried it into nonoseconds. Then, I took a cheesegrater – the kind you find around the house, and shredded every fuckin’ word off every last page of that thing, except for “The End”, which I Krazy-Glued to my forehead ’cause it kind of freaks people out.

Every body always pretends they read books.

Books are for losers.