Author: lizarcury

I'm a writer and stand-up/improv comedian. I've had pieces featured on McSweeney's, Splitsider, Weird Girls, and CollegeHumor. My humor writing website is https://lizarcury.wordpress.com. Contact me at liz.arcury@gmail.com and follow me on Twitter @LizArcury. I'm definitely watching "Newsies" right now.

I’ll Marry Any Cop-In-Training In Hopes That One Day He’ll Become A Hot, Moody, Conflicted Small Town Sheriff Preoccupied With The Paranormal

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been a proud member of the #ForeverSingle crowd for years now. It’s fun and freeing to do whatever I want, whenever I want. But after a few failed attempts at love, I’ve decided to lock in to my womanhood and what I truly crave. What do I truly want in a romantic partner? Do I want someone to wake up next to each morning, excited to take on the day with? Do I want someone to go on adventures around the world with? Do I want someone to raise a family with?

 

The truth is: no. I want none of those things. I am specifically looking to marry a young, eager cop-in-training, in hopes that one day he’ll become a hot, moody, conflicted small town sheriff preoccupied with the paranormal.

 

I meditated. I filled out every self-help workbook my therapist gave me. I went to a retreat in Mexico. And while it was incredibly emotionally taxing, I finally broke through. I know now what I truly want.

 

I NEED to be fucked by a bearded man in someplace like Indiana who drinks whiskey and sighs staring out of his snowy cabin window each morning. He’s got a big secret!

 

Seriously. Give me any eager young man in a police academy in the vague geographic area of the United States midwest. My only requirement beyond that is that he has a tender core of kindness. So that when the aliens and/or ghosts and/or vampires show up, he will rush to rescue his quaint little town.

 

I don’t want to be his first priority. I don’t even want to be his second priority. I want his primary preoccupation to be with the paranormal always. I want to gingerly close my book as he walks into the bedroom after a long day being yelled at by his deputies who don’t believe his crazy rambling about the extraterrestrial force that is taking over the town. I want him to rest his beard on my chest and tell me that, “…it’s a crazy world out there.”

 

Not only would I have a super hot and moody dude as a husband, but I’d have constant ME time. I am an introvert and I crave having the house to myself. I don’t want some dumb life partner who’s around all the damn time and always asking me to hang out. I need to be able to sleep in, make a pot of tea, catch up on Below Deck, and read Tumblr.

 

And then at the end of the day I want to have awesome sex with an overworked, bedraggled police officer who is hanging on to reality by a thread.

 

 

 

 

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Jackets Won’t End Cold Weather, So We Shouldn’t Bother Wearing Them

SPONSORED POST by the Patriot Snowmen of America

 

As the liberal left takes over more and more media outlets each day to spew their pleas for “political correctness” and “not dying of frostbite,” I can only sit back and laugh at their childish naïveté. Coldness has always been around. It will always be around. No amount of regulation will remove all coldness from the planet Earth.

 

And yet, just like the predictable brainwashed little sheeple that we all know these glib libs are, every time 50 or more people die of pneumonia or hypothermia or from their nose freezing and falling off and the blood inside of their body becoming a cherry Icee, we see the same whines from these out-of-touch elites.

 

“Jackets should be legal to wear!”

 

“Call your Congressman to repeal the bill that requires all American citizens to stand outside in no more than government-sanctioned rolled-up Soffe shorts when it snows!

 

“The President is in the pocket of Big Sleet!”

 

Blah, blah, blah, blah. Uhh…do they really think we should be allowed to put on more clothes in the wintertime?! What are we, those crybabies in Finland?! Our great Founding Fathers did NOT build this beautiful country from nothing so that we could be bundled up and cozy like they are!

 

If they had it their way, the LAMEstream media would have you think that it practically snows every year! Around the same general span of a few months! !hen the Earth’s axis tilts our hemisphere away from the heat of the Sun!

 

GET THE REAL FACTS, AMERICA.

 

What these reverse-racist brainwashing victims don’t want you know is that the weather creates coldness. No human can control the weather; it was here before we were born and it will be here after we die. So there is NO POINT in wearing a JACKET when you FEEL COLD because there is still a chance of you FEELING COLD sometimes when you are wearing that jacket!!! What about that bare part of your neck that the zipper doesn’t quite reach?!? What about that couple inches of space in the sleeves that you can sometimes feel the air come into?!?

 

THE. COLDNESS. WILL. ALWAYS. FIND. A. WAY.

 

So suck it up, heatcucks. That’s how the world works. You ain’t gonna take away our Boreas-given right to kill hundreds of you at once by freezing your big toe off and letting that awesome-looking green infection from the dirty industrial melted snow-water seep into your bone marrow. This is what our brave fallen men have fought for.

 

Who’s with me?! This is OUR time. Sounds like these snowflakes need to learn to handle one of the undeniable features of living in the REAL WORLD: snowflakes.

 

I Love My Nancy Drew Wife

I love this woman and her obsessive sleuthing. As a teenager, I was often teased by my friends for my attraction to girls on the old clock mystery-solving side, ones who were good at cryptograms and ciphers, girls that the average (basic) bro might refer to as “a detective” or even “a small town crime solver.”

 

Then, as I became a man and started to educate myself on issues such as the disproportionately rampant kidnapping and murder rates in River Heights and how the media marginalizes women by portraying a very narrow and very specific standard of crime-solving (training, police certification, DNA evidence) I realized how many men have bought into that lie. For me, there is nothing sexier than this woman right here: a notepad, a single attorney father, cute little property trespassing, etc.

 

Her local county fair drugs-hidden-in-a-carousel crime ring bust won’t be the one featured on national news but it’s the one featured in my life and in my heart. There’s nothing sexier to me than a woman who is both thorough and out for justice; this gorgeous girl I married fills out every inch of her paperwork once she turns in a perp and is still the most beautiful one in the room.

 

Guys, rethink what society has told you that you should desire. A real woman is not a sassy single lady cop or a hardened retired detective or a tech nerd in the CSI lab. She’s real. She has beautiful dirt marks on her hands from breaking into the shipyard and cute little scars on her neck after being tied to a radiator while following a hunch in the abandoned cotton candy warehouse by the coast.

 

Girls, don’t ever fool yourself by thinking you have to fit a certain mold to be loved and appreciated. There is a guy out there who is going to celebrate you for exactly who you are, someone who will love you like I love my Nancy.

How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days 2: Mooching In D.C.

In the highly-anticipated sequel to the 2003 Hudson/McConaughey romp, Anthony Scaramucci is a hotshot communications director. He’s brash, sassy, and cynical. He’s tired of the day-in and day-out slog of being married to a brilliant female finance executive who has agreed to spend the best years of her life with him and carry his beautiful child. Boooorrring! We’ve all been there. Yawn.

Scaramucci’s plight hits him all at once during one of his morning cry-screaming-into-a-bowl-of-bubbling-marinara-sauce-to-make-sure-it-doesn’t-need-more-chopped-garlic sessions: “I have to get out.” In this moment of reckoning, Anthony promises himself that he will leave his life behind forever if he can make a new career for himself work in under 10 days.

Our hero slaps on his golden cufflinks that are just spray-painted pieces of penne pasta and bravely decides to step out of his comfort zone into a new world. That world is…The White House?!?!? Zoinks!

Little does Anthony know that his new boss, Don Trump – the bold, confident, and Lunchable’s-loving President of the United States – has a similar plan up his sleeve. Trump has cooked up quite the kooky scheme for any new fella who comes his way: If a guy can go 10 whole entire days without saying the phrase “suck my own cock”, he gets to stay in the White House.

These two hilarious heartthrobs never know of the other’s hidden plans. Hijinks, confusion, spills, thrills, adventure, surprise, rampant misogyny, and bankruptcy ensue!

This zany and unpredictable sequel (with a special cameo from the legendary Bebe Neuwirth reprising her role as the merciless fashion mag exec from the first film!) is a barrel of laughs and collusion. Was it worth it for the cheeky Anthony to sell his former business, leave his successful and gorgeous life partner, and skip the birth of his child? Will slick Don finally let his guard down and accept this charming, mouthy calzone for who he is? Will Anthony get through 10 whole days without saying the phrase “suck my own cock”, and open up his heart?

Only this fast-paced 90-minute rollicking good time on the silver screen can tell!*

*Or you can just open Twitter.

See Fewer Posts Like This

Why Are You Hiding This Post?

  • This post is offensive
  • This post threatens harm
  • This post proposes the notion that Adam invited four people to his birthday brunch and that I was not considered to be one of those select four but Adam has never said anything to me about not liking me or being mad at me so I’m really confused
  • This post showcases the successes of someone who is not smarter or better than me and now has activated my already deeply rooted insecurity into hyperdrive
  • This post shows two people saying they’re in love and smiling at a theme park and now I can’t get out from under my covers for the sixth straight hour
  • This post uses the word “journal” as a verb
  • This post has too many girls commenting and I thought I was the only one who liked this guy
  • This post is from someone who I friend requested 10 years ago because I liked them on a TV show and now they aren’t getting work and it’s really bumming me out
  • This post is the sixty-seventh goddamn post this week from Laura about her ‘personalized knitted hand puppets’ Etsy store
  • This post makes me uncomfortable because it’s asking me to face a truth about my privilege that I’ve been blind to my entire life
  • This post is my fun aunt sharing an unimaginably low-res meme about following your heart that is just a picture of purple flowers
  • This post is spam

 

I Will Bang My Head Against The Wall Wanting Feminism To Be A Thing Until The Man In Black Finally Shows Me The Dark Tower

I am the last of my kind.

The final descendant of the Arthur Eld.

I am the lone remaining Feminist since my world moved on. The man in black has the answers I need. He can bring me to The Dark Tower. The Dark Tower – legend slithered down from my mother and her mother and her mother and light years of Feminists beyond holds – is the nexus between the two universes: the old universe of Feminism, and the ever-slipping portal into the universe of Male Approval.

I have been following the man in black for a stretch of desolate time, the exact length of which I’ll never be quite sure of. It could be decades, it could be eons, it could be a fortnight. He eludes me expertly, and yet on some long, journey-filled nights I feel that he could be mere yards ahead. Stories were passed down on scrolls before everything moved on that read that the man in black can help me make Feminism a thing, so that I can finally stop banging my head against the wall.

When I met Josh – a weak, yet whip-smart eleven-year-old boy – he first told me to stop banging my head against the wall. The barn that he slept in was old and the infrastructure was rotting. He said that my head-banging could damage the walls of his only shelter and that I was scaring him.

Meek, innocent Josh. If only he knew. Banging one’s head against the wall is what Feminists do. Though he wouldn’t know that, of course. In my fitful, sun-drenched days, I forget that the lessons of the old world are no more.

Only I remain.

Genevieve was the last real Feminist trainer. She’d round us all up every morning – Becca, Francine, Jillian, and myself – and work us until we bled. I think back to those dewy mornings spent outside in the royal courtyard before everything moved on. The girls and myself were of the Arthur Eld. Our mothers were all fierce, respected Feminists.

No one lived except me. When Genevieve gave us our Final Task to be sent out on our own, they crumbled.

Our challenge upon turning the age of eighteen years was this: To learn that Male Approval is worthless, and that caring about it and basing your level of happiness over a lifetime on whether you have it or not, and that throwing other women under the bus because you want it is, in fact, not our destiny.

Our Final Task was to learn these seemingly impossible truths, accept them, and fashion ourselves an independent lifestyle that did not require the precious drink of Male Approval that we had been raised and bred to believe was life’s real purpose.

Jillian was the first to be banished. She failed the initial Instagram challenge: To look at a handsome man’s photo of his dog, and not immediately assume that he’d make a great boyfriend.

I don’t like thinking about that day. Our morning stretches before Jillian’s Final Task was the last time that I would see her alive. Genevieve was ruthless.

I successfully completed my Final Task. I sent a hawk to peck out every living man’s eyes, so that the male gaze no longer existed.

And then everything moved on.

Josh shakes me awake. I’ve been dreaming again. My dreams are the only place where the old world comes back to me in all its vivid shades.

“I just saw a dark figure walk over that sand hill,” Josh alerts me.

“About how tall was he?! Do you remember? Tell me everything, boy.”

“‘Bout six foot. But with his dark hat, I’d reckon about three more inches than that.”

I knew.

It was him. The man in black. The one who could finally give me the the relief of not having to bang my Feminist head against the wall anymore. The one who held the secrets of the Tower.

The multi-dimensional, universe-connecting, all-powerful, deadly Tower. Where my world can finally make sense. Where my mission has led me.

The Tower: where Feminism ‘becomes a thing’.

I am the last of my kind. And my head hurts.

Reasons Horror Movies Don’t Work On Me

 

near-dark

 

Step it up, horror movies.

 

Womanhood

A scary guy chasing me? The constant threat of attack/murder? Welcome to Thursday. As women, we’ve been raised to be unceasingly aware of every angle of our surroundings, every inch of our appearance, and our public performance art of no eye contact with any male human (lest we give him the obvious impression with our sultry glances that we desperately desire to rip his clothes off right there on the E train,) all to keep ourselves out of physical danger every single day. Cause it’s, ya know, our responsibility. There are gadgets we can buy to keep ourselves safe, too, like mace hiding in a bottle that looks like something else, sharp things that look like kitten ears to attach to our key chains, and even trendy nail polish that changes color if we dip our fingers into a drink that’s been roofied! We’ve got a veritable tool belt of anti-murder shit that we strap on every morning. So yeah…bring it on, Cenobites. You’re no scarier than my old landlord who chased me and grabbed me that one time.

 

Depression

Death is on my mind constantly, as it is with most 20-somethings with a psychiatrist and a bucket of the hottest new SSRI prescriptions.

Wouldn’t this all be so much easier if I were gone? 

I’d literally rather die than move from my bed and put on clothes.

If I have to make small talk with a stranger tonight I will walk into the East River. 

An alien lands on Earth and chases and eats me? Okay. Cool. Sounds like it’d be a huge load off, actually.

 

Student Loans

I’m in a lot of student debt. Like, “I have more to pay off in student loans than most people have on their mini-mansion mortgage” a lot.

If us all turning into rotting zombie corpses due to an apocalyptic virus means that I’ll stop getting calls from Discover when I’m late on a payment, I’m all for it.

 

Vampires Are Sexy

I’ll be bitten and forever transformed into a vicious nocturnal blood hunter by punk-grunge Bill Paxton any night. And then the next night. And the next.

 

 

 

 

 

This “Bachelor” Facebook Group Is Becoming Hostile

Hey gang.

I know our country is in a state of turmoil, but I feel it is urgent to point out that our once peaceful, supportive, a bit-filled Facebook group – whose sole purpose is to discuss The Bachelor with each other as it airs each week – is becoming quite hostile.

Yes, this season is skin-searingly infuriating. From Nick’s constant in-person dumping (instead of following the goddamn rules and waiting for a rose ceremony like a normal fucking human being) of very worthy women to Corinne’s inbred hot toddler behavior that somehow keeps getting rewarded time and time again, I can see why we are all a bit tense, especially with our current political climate. However, I have to put my foot down.

As the supermoderator, it is my job to maintain this Bachelor Facebook group and ensure that it follows friendly, basic guidelines. Did I expect this season to turn us all into wolves of the night and ransack each other’s homes while our children slept?

 

book-club-2011

 

No. I thought we would perhaps share some funny .gifs approximately three times a week, and maybe even have a fun miscellaneous thread where we recommend uplifting books to each other! Lincoln In The Bardo is great, by the way!

Miranda, I should especially apologize to you. Had I known that the other women and men in this Bachelor Facebook group had been putting together a weeks-long master blueprint to blackmail you and sabotage your career prospects at the finance company you’ve poured twelve years of your life into, – all because you said in a comment reply that you think Danielle M. is ‘dramatic’ – I most certainly would have put a stop to it. Please let me know if you need a place to stay.

Nathan, I’m going to have to ask you to stop sending feces in the mail to anyone who says that they actually didn’t find Nick that charming in BiP. I know that you find his faults effusively charming, but feel free to post a funny sticker comment instead.

We are all angry. This season has tested us to a limit of emotional frustration that we did not know possible.

Sure, Corinne is a ‘bold’ and ‘confident’ contestant, but there’s no need to declare anyone who doesn’t like her a non-feminist, Mary Anne. We love your enthusiastic candor, but she is a straight-up trash baby. Who most definitely voted for Trump. (And that government community building that you burned down in your pro-Corinne rage is going to be very expensive to repair. Did you think that the detectives wouldn’t put together that the fire started  at precisely 10:01PM on a Monday evening?)

Let’s remember what we all came together in this Facebook group for. Acceptance, laughs, and the enjoyment of a reality show that demeans our gender.

And to everyone who’s been reaching out to check in on my health: I am typing this from the hospital and my recovery is going smoothly. The quick anger stroke that I experienced when I learned that Nick would not be meeting Rachel’s father on her hometown date did not cause any permanent paralysis, thankfully.

Best wishes,

Liz

PS: The paperwork for a class-action movement against ABC for airing the most unbearable and unwatchable season of The Bachelor yet should be in your inboxes! Let’s shatter these motherfuckers.

Think Pieces My Brain Writes To Me

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Why Going Outside Is Problematic

Yes, They’re All Getting Brunch Without You. And Science Is Here To Prove It.

Could Pounds Of Raw Cookie Dough Be The Cure-All Medicine We’ve Been Hoping For?

The Facebook ‘Like’ That Will Save Your Friendship

Is He Into You? Only His Last 849 Instagram Posts Can Tell You

Science Says It Would Actually Be Better To Brush Your Teeth Tomorrow Morning Instead Of Tonight

You Need Quarters For Laundry. Here’s Why.

Ways You Can Die If You Go To His Pub Basement Concert Tonight

 

High School Prom Themes Under Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos

 

High school proms are going to be a little different now.

 

images

White Flight Night

The Ursine Masquerade

An Evening In Limbo

BYOG: Bring Your Own Gun Extravaganza!

The Golden Age of Hollywood: Blackface Required

One Night At Nakatomi Plaza

1960’s Retro Systematic Oppression Boogie!

Adventure Night: Locked In The Gym By An Under-Treated Mentally Ill Student Who Was Allowed To Bring A Gun In Here

Under The Sea: Climate Change Isn’t Real

None: Students Don’t Know How To Read The Posters That Said Prom Was Happening