Julia Louis-Dreyfus. You magnificent woman. You brilliant, unstoppable goddess of comedy.
We need to talk, and I think you know what it’s about.
Yeah, it’s your butt. Your naked butt on the cover of Rolling Stone.
I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed (and confused and conflicted and possibly aroused, but we’ll get to that).
The disappointment comes from a place of love,
Elaine Julia. You’re the absolute best thing on television at the moment. As fictional Vice President of the United States of America in the show VEEP, you are comedy perfection. It’s like a feminist version of the West Wing, only more hilarious, and you’re the sweariest feminist there ever was. Don’t even get me started on how brilliant you were in Seinfeld.
So, loving you as I do, this cover breaks my heart a little. You’re a brilliant, respected comedian and nudity shouldn’t be necessary for you to be taken seriously. Sex appeal’s not even your professional currency, yet you still felt you had to do this. You’re so talented, you shouldn’t need to bear your butt – no matter how fabulous it looks – to land the cover of the coolest magazine on the planet. I resent this cover because I think you’ve been forced to choose between sexiness and dignity.
Sure, there’s a lot to love about it. You’re 53 years old and you’ve got bits of the American constitution tattooed on your bare back like it aint no thang. You’ve got creases on your forehead like a real human being who can still move her movie-star face. Your hair is tousled like a cherub from the heavens has breathed on you from above.