A few months ago a famous author got me banned from every publishing platform. I don’t know if I’ll ever get around to making all my books available again but Where The Cunt Blood Enters The Heart is one of the most important and bunniest books I ever wrote. It’s not available again my Payhip store under the Bunnula Publishing imprint.
A lot has been going on since I got banned from Twitter and Chuck Wendig got me banned from every publishing platform. I’ve recently gotten more focused on doing visual art instead of writing fiction, and people seem to respond really well to my drawings.
I also find that Instagram is a lot more fun to use than Twitter, it’s more of an arty platform for artsy people like me, it’s not a mean hellhole of political crap the way Twitter is.
I am excited to be retiring the Kitty Glitter name once and for all, and I have decided to create a print book. One single volume that collects all the writing I did under that name. I imagine this book could end up being more than 1,000 pages long. An old fan of mine, a musician in Canada, suggested that I make this book. I will probably just self-publish it on Lulu.
So RIP Kitty Glitter, you were a good kitty, and a good writer:
I wrote one last story under the Kitty Glitter name, it’s pretty crappy so I don’t want to include it in the book. So I decided to post it here, the story is called Strung Out On Cum, and it tells the story of another failed kitty writer who had his dreams totally destroyed and raped:
Strung Out On Cum
Time Is Up, by Poppy, played on the radio in Blark Blergin’s Dodge Challenger, as he drove down the California highway. He’d just gotten into town from Cincinnati, and his time wasn’t up; it had just begun.
Blark Blergin was a tuxedo kitty. He had white and black fur. He was little, and he had a black smear across his white face that looked like a Hitler mustache. People used to call him Kitler, but he wasn’t Kitler. He wasn’t evil; he was a good kitty.
“I can’t wait to get to L.A.,” Blark Blergin said. “When those studios read my screenplay, they’re gonna go crazy!”
Blark Blergin looked at the screenplay on his passenger seat while he was driving. It was called Absentia 2. He’d written it as a sequel to Mike Flanagan’s horror film Absentia, about a giant interdimensional bug that kidnaps people in a tunnel in L.A.
Blark had always wanted to explore the world of Absentia and expand it. With his totally awesome idea, he was bound to become the most famous screenwriter ever.
Blark Bergin turned his Challenger down Rodeo Drive and pulled up to a record store called Spin City. He figured he’d look for some CDs to play in his car. He was getting tired of Poppy and was hoping he’d find The Gun Club, so he could listen to Sex Beat on the long trip.
Blark walked into the record store, with his screenplay in his paws, snuggled up against his chest. Everybody in the record store was hot. He’d heard every girl in L.A. was a ten, and it was true. Pretty much all the girls in the store had double Ds, and sexy legs. All of them looked like some variation of Katy Perry, but hotter, and younger.
The girl behind the counter of the record store looked kind of like Camila Cabello.
“I’m looking for some Gun Club CDs,” Blark Blergin said.
“Gun Club,” the girl said, “you in the NRA?”
“Nah, man,” Blark said, “The Gun Club’s a punk band!”
The girl came out from behind the counter, and Blark noticed she wore a short skirt and high heels, and was totally hot.
Pretty soon, she found The Gun Club CD, and then she motioned to his screenplay and said, “What’s that?”
“This is my screenplay,” Blark said, “I’m gonna make it big in Hollywood with this.”
“Really?” The girl said, “What’s it about?”
“It’s a sequel to Absentia.”
“Absentia?” The girl said, “I never heard of it.”
Blark was trying to explain it to her, when all of a sudden the jingle bell on the door started ringing, and a guy walked into the record store. The guy had Donny Osmond style hair, aviator sunglasses, and he wore a green, military, surplus jacket.
He came up to Blark, slapped him on his kitty ass, and said, “They’re gonna find that screenplay dead in a ditch, man!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Blark Blergin said. “Why are you talking shit about my screenplay?”
“Listen, man,” the guy said, “name’s Chance McKay. I’m the hottest agent in town. I turn writers into superstars. I’ll get that screenplay made, or else it’s gonna be dead in a ditch, and nobody’s gonna know why it died. It’ll be an unsolved mystery!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Blark asked. “How’s a screenplay gonna die in a ditch? It’s just a bunch of paper stapled together.”
“You don’t know L.A.,” Chance McKay said. “You need to run with me to see, man!”
“I don’t need an agent,” Blark said.
Blark walked out of the store with his Gun Club CD and his screenplay, got into his Challenger, and drove right down Rodeo Drive, until he saw a big gold sign that said Movie Studio on it.
When he approached the gates of the movie studio, there was this fat, Mexican security guard, and he was like, “Eh ese, we ain’t allow no kitties in here without an invitation yo!”
“I’m gonna be the greatest screenwriter ever,” Blark said. “I don’t need an invitation!”
“Yeah you do ese,” the security guard said, “so get out of here, chola!”
“What the hell?” Blark exclaimed, “I’m not a chola, I’m a kitty!”
Blark backed his Challenger out, and the parking spikes ripped his tires open.
Blark got out of the Challenger, and was like, “Fuck, man! I don’t have money for tires; I barely have enough for a motel!”
So Blark took his screenplay and suitcase and started walking down Rodeo Drive.
The bright L.A. sun was burning his eyes, and then he heard a screech.
Blark looked up to see a purple Plymouth Barracuda at the curb, and then its driver’s side window rolled down.
“Hey man, you in trouble?”
It was Chance McKay.
“Looks like Los Angeles has got you on the skids, man! Sure you don’t need my help?”
“Fine,” Blark said, “you can be my agent.”
“Get in,” Chance McKay said, as he threw the passenger side door open.
Chance turned the radio up to max volume, and the sound of Camila Cabello’s Never Be The Same filled the car, and the bass vibrated through Blark’s fur, making it puff out.
“Damn, this song’s awesome!” Blark said.
“I know,” Chance said. “Tell you the truth, I banged Camila Cabello. Banged her so hard her vocal range increased twenty octaves.”
“Let me take a look at that screenplay,” Chance McKay said, and, as he pulled the Barracuda onto the Pacific Coast Highway, he read the script for Absentia 2 and said, “Damn, man! This screenplay’s good. With my management, you’ll go to the top. You’ll be the next Rian Johnson!”
“Rian Johnson sucks,” Blark said, as his fur puffed out even more, “I’m gonna be the next Lena Dunham!”
“Here’s the deal,” Chance said, “my fee is usually a million dollars, but I’ll take you on for five hundred smackeroos.”
Blark Blergin shook his kitty head and looked in his wallet; all he had left was five hundred bucks. But, he figured, he could take a chance on Chance McKay. He needed to make it, so he could get rich enough to fix the tires on his Challenger.
Blark held onto the five hundred dollars, stared at it for second, and then was like, “Alright, man,” and he passed it over to chance. For some reason, he felt this dark cloud descend over his head, like a rain cloud, but then he was like, Nah man I’m just being paranoid. I’m taking a chance on Chance and it’ll pay off when I’m the most famous writer ever!
Chance McKay flipped through the bills and started grinning. Then, he pulled the Barracuda over to the curb.
“Alright man, I’ll find you when I need you,” Chance said. “I’m gonna start making some calls. You hold onto this script and maybe make some revisions, spruce it up.”
Blark Blergin didn’t have any money for a motel room that night, so he found an old cardboard box and slept poolside at a shitty motel. He noticed there were pink, plastic flamingos all over the pool. It was weird, because every flamingo had a black smudge on its face that looked like a Hitler mustache, just like his, like how he was called Kitler and he thought, These are flamitlers I guess, but whatever man.
Blark had an old transistor radio, and he turned it on so he’d have music to calm him and help him dream. The radio DJ was like, “I’m DJ Deejers, and this next song is by a Russian band called Angelic Milk. It’s called Some Boys Are Beautiful Girls.”
The song was so good, and beautiful, and haunting sounding. It had these jangly guitars, and the girl singer sung really good. Blark felt his fur bristle up out of pleasure and started drifting off and dreaming about his screenplay…
The bug from Absentia part one still lived in that tunnel, and it still kidnapped people into another dimension. But nobody ever knew where they went.
Nobody ever knew why a dead fetus was found in that tunnel. It was a mystery.
Then, one day, this gang of kitties was riding around, and they were the toughest kitties in L.A., and they were Chicano, and they all had yellow bandanas on their heads, and gold chains, and big Reebok sneakers. They drove kitty-sized lowriders.
Five of them were driving around with Uzis in their paws, and they were chasing down a member of the Crips, because he’d stolen some crack from them, and they were like, “We’re gonna get you, ese!”
The kitties ended up driving into that tunnel and skidded on a puddle, and they were about to crash into the wall of the tunnel, but just then the bug monster from the other dimension had been sneaking into their dimension to look for snacks, and he left the portal open just long enough for the kitties to crash their lowrider through the hole into his world and end up in his weird dimension and shit.
In this part of the screenplay, it was just like the original Absentia. It was all left up to the imagination. All that was shown was an empty tunnel. You couldn’t see the other dimension. But you heard the meowing, and you heard the screaming and the gunfire, and you knew that bug was fucked. Everyone he’d kidnapped to his world was fucked, too, because these cholo kittens weren’t fucking around. The movie ended on a haunting note, because the audience would know that the kitty cholo gang was cruising through another dimension in their lowrider, fucking shit up. It would be subversive, because the audience would be like, “Wait…is the bug monster the monster, or are the cholo kitties the monsters now? What are monsters, really?”
Blark Blergin woke up thinking of his script and was like, My screenplay will ask questions that never get answered. That’s the sign of a perfect film, the kind of movie people talk about forever! You don’t get the ending fed to you, the ending feeds on your brain, man!
Blark couldn’t wait to hear from Chance McKay and see what connections he came up with. But, for the next few days, Blark wandered the streets of L.A.’s skid row, scrounging for food. Every time he looked up, he hoped he’d see that purple Barracuda pull up, and Chance McKay would be like, “Hey man, you took a chance on me, and I’m taking a chance on you! We’re gonna go to a meeting with the biggest studio person ever; he’s, like, bigger than Harvey Weinstein. He’s gonna make your screenplay into the biggest movie ever, and you’ll win every Oscar ever!”
The days passed, and the nights grew darker, and Blark Bergin got hungrier, but Chance McKay never pulled up to that curb. Then, one day, Blark saw a mouse running down the street, and Blark started chasing him, and the mouse was like, “Yo, leave me alone, bitch! You smell like shit!”
Blark chased the mouse into a fancy cafe where he saw a bunch of fat ugly guys sitting around. They looked like producers, and Blark walked up to them and was like, “Meow meow meow meow meow!”
The men looked at Blark and said, “Ah, look at this kitty! He’s cute. He looks kind of like Hitler, but he’s adorable!”
Then, they said, “What do you want kitty?”
Blark said, “Meow meow meow meow!”
Then he passed his screenplay to them, and they said, “Oh wow! This kitty has a screenplay. Why don’t we look at it?”
The producers sat there reading Blark’s script, and, when they finished it, they all said, “This screenplay is a piece of shit! You should go back to being a kitty or something, because you don’t have any talent. Cholo kitties driving through a portal? You’re a straight up fucking piece of shit! We don’t play around in Hollywood. If we told you you were good, it wouldn’t be fair. Criticism is love, man, and hard criticism is like true love, so get the fuck out of our faces!”
Then they tore the screenplay to pieces.
Blark Blergin started wandering the streets again, and he was starving, but he wasn’t gonna give up and go live in a shelter. He was gonna go find a Kinko’s, scrounge up some coins, print another copy of his script, and keep going. That’s the way Blark Blergin was, he wasn’t gonna let Chance McKay, or these producers, ruin his dreams.
As the days passed, Blark started to get sadder and sadder, and was like, Shit man, maybe they’re right, maybe I don’t have talent. He got so hungry, he started looking for jobs on Craigslist. And he saw an ad that said, “Need somebody who is open minded. A kitty. A kitty who isn’t afraid to get sticky. Five hundred cash.”
So, Blark went to Kinko’s and wrote an email to the guy, and pretty soon he got an address somewhere in Koreatown. Blark showed up to a little, brown house that night and knocked on the door. A young-looking Asian guy, with slicked-,back hair opened the door and said, “What’s up, man? My name is Gregg. Gregg Tee!”
“Grej?” Blark said.“You say it Grej, but it’s spelled G-R-E-G-G!” Gregg Tee said. “Don’t ask questions, and get in here. I got the five hundred dollars on my nightstand.”Blark Blergin entered the house and said, “So what’s this job? How am I getting sticky?”
“You’re gonna be my kitty cum rag,” Gregg said. “I’m gonna soak you in my cum!”
“Shit, man,” Blark said, “I was supposed to be a famous screenwriter, but all my dreams got destroyed. Is that what L.A. is?”
“I guess,” Gregg said. “L.A.’s basically one, giant rag soaked full of cum. All dreams are just sprayed cum, wasted. Only some dreams make their way into the uterus and make people pregnant. Your dream is cum spilled into a sock!” Then, Gregg Tee started jerking off over Blark’s head, and Blark started trembling and kitty crying. Pretty soon, Gregg Tee’s dick blew up, and cum sprayed over every inch of Blark’s body, and he was soaked and looked like somebody had dropped him into a pot of Elmer’s glue. “Damn!” Gregg Tee said, “you’re a good cum rag. I’ll hire you anytime.”
Gregg handed Blark a wadded-up roll of five hundred singles.
“I can’t believe you paid me in ones,” Blark said, and he ended up dropping the wad since it was too big for his paws. So, he rolled around in the ones, until they all stuck to the cum on his fur, and he looked like a green pinata.
Blark left Gregg Tee’s house, and pretty soon he found a catnip dealer. He bought a bag of catnip and sniffed it all. He got high as fuck and started losing his mind and crying.
What happened to me? He thought. I went from the greatest screenwriter ever to being a cum rag.
Then, Blark started crying and wandering around, without looking where he was going. At some point, his cries started to echo, and he looked up and realized he was in a tunnel.
“Holy shit,” Blark said, “this is the tunnel, the tunnel from Absentia.”
Then he thought, Absentia brought me here. The sequel to Absentia was my dream, and now I’m nothing!
Then, Blark started staring down the darkness of the tunnel and thinking, what if that dimension was real? That giant bug thing kidnapped people, and it’s because he wanted them there. Maybe that world he’s in is like another kind of L.A., a world where I could be a screenwriter.
Blark walked through the tunnel, until he saw a little plastic dish that somebody had left some chicken bones on and thought, What if this was left for the monster? Is this where the portal is?
Then, Blark sat there and meowed at the wall. He meowed for the bug monster to come and take him away, take him away to another L.A., an L.A. where he could have been famous.
Where he could have been the greatest kitty screenwriter ever.
I was thinking about getting banned from Amazon and Twitter and how it was my fault, it was shitty of me to publish a book making fun of Chuck Wendig. I know he can be a jerk but, in the end, that’s his business.
Is it worth getting caught up in these stupid culture wars? Does insulting people and mocking people accomplish anything?
I am retiring the Kitty Glitter name, it has become associated with too much mean-spirited activity. Being a dick no longer interests me.
Under the Cum Carmichael/Pussy Tantrum name I shall become an agent of peace and love, and creation. To be an outsider artist means you devote your life to creation, creation must be apolitical if it is to remain pure.
The picture of John Lennon that accompanies this post was made to honor a man who devoted his life to peace and love.
There’s so much meanness in the world, to contribute any more is a waste of life, and even worse, it’s a waste of imagination.
Today I wrote the first draft of the first episode of Pussy High. I am not very experience with writing scripts or making films. It’s going to take a lot of work to get this first episode done. But I have the dolls, I have the camera, and I have the toy high school ready!
I’ve decided that for the time being my Kitty Glitter persona is dead. I wrote one new story under that name recently, it was called Strung Out On Cum. I wrote it with the intention of submitting it to a zine called Underbelly. They ended up rejecting it. I may submit it somewhere else, I think it’s a pretty cool story.
I achieved a lot under the Kitty Glitter name. I wrote Wesley Crusher: Teenage Fuck Machine, the most legendary Star Trek fan fiction ever. I also destroyed Chuck Wendig and made him cry by writing Soy Wars: The Soylence Of The Lambs.
Kitty Glitter has done enough. It’s time to move on.
Since I’ve been doing The Pussy Centipede podcast under the name name Pussy Tantrum I decided that my creator name for Pussy High will be Cum Carmichael.
Chap, I do not care if you ever listen to The Pussy Centipede, or if you ever purchase one of my crappy kitty porno books. But it occurred to me this morning that before The Pussy Centipede came along nobody had ever questioned the podcast as an art-form. It seems as though most fellows were quite content to record interviews with famous mediocrities, speak about a film or book they enjoyed or hated, cry about some sort of political issue, or regurgitate spooky urban legends.
Nobody had ever though to play, to experiment, to use the podcasting form as if it were a box of crayons. Nobody before I that is!
The importance of The Pussy Centipede is that podcasting has more possibilities, it has the ability to become something greater than what it has been. Podcasting is a powerful creative tool, much like a crayon. Nobody ever used a crayon to regurgitate tired Star Wars criticism or attack SJWs. Or perhaps they have chap?
Regardless, to be a creator is noble, even if you fail. To be a pop culture whore is not noble. Do you want to use your imagination to cry about Star Wars or Star Trek or say “Every movie sucks!” or “Every movie is awesome!” or do you want to create something of your own, bring something into the universe that has never existed?
Granted, it’s easy to get people to care about your pop culture prostitution. It’s easy to sell your imagination much like a whore’s pussy. So if that’s what you want then go make another Star Wars review show or horror movie fan boy show, go make another true crime podcast and regurgitate stories that have already been regurgitated a million times over. Sometimes it may be easier to bring absolutely nothing to the table.
Look at Ethan Van Sciver, he was once a great artist, but ask most people today and they only know about his Youtube videos where he cries about Star Wars movies and opines on Brie Larson’s face.
He has become nothing more than a prostitute, a pawn in the giant Disney machine.
Humans are born with a great gift, a gift that cats and puppies do not have, that gift is the imagination. Why not use it? Why not choose to be a creator and not a regurgitator!
The Pussy Centipede will be going on a brief hiatus, the story of the puppy centipede and Bobby Trendy’s treachery has concluded. You may hear the newest episode by clicking the photograph below!
I recorded two more episodes of The Pussy Centipede. I’ve begun to experiment with computery voices and soundboards in order to help usher The Pussy Centipede into the future world of 2019!
I’m hoping to release at least one new episode a week. Also, I’ve noticed that if you listen to the show on Anchor there are really long pauses in between the segments, so it’s better to listen to the show on Sticher or Radio Public or one of the other platforms it’s available on!