Julia Louis Dreyfus. We need to talk about your naked butt.

 
 
 
 
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.

But frankly, I hate to think of you turning up to a studio full of dudes for this photo shoot and having to drop your pants as a career tactic. No matter how sexy the final shot is, the part where you stood butt-naked in front of a photographer? That’s degrading.

And I want better for you. I want more for the woman who brought life to Seinfeld‘s finest shiksa. I want you to have the kind of fame where you don’t need to look coquettishly over your shoulder, grabbing your own boobs like you’ve been casually interrupted by a film crew.

But you know what genuinely gets my knickers in a knot? More than the fact that you had to drop yours? The headline. Julia Louis Dreyfus, “The First Lady of Comedy.” Who does that make the president? Why, when you play one of the most powerful (fictional) women in the world in your TV show, wouldn’t they call you the President of Comedy? Or the Vice President of Comedy? Or the Secretary of the State of Hilarity? You’re one of the most successful people in the entertainment industry right now, and they demoted you to First Lady? 

Jules. If you were going to get naked for the cover of Rolling Stone with excerpts from the constitution on your naked back, you really should have insisted on a title that reflects the supremacy of your talent.

Cos at the moment, this whole cover  kind of contradicts the awesome thing you said inside the mag: “There is sexism – I’m not denying its existence,” she says. “But I’m saying that I will deny its effort against me. I just pay it no nevermind and say, ‘Get out of my way.'”

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