Yes, that is part of the title song of the musical we saw in previews a few nights ago. I probably shouldn’t comment here because we know one of the actors who worked very hard to make unworkable material work. I could review it here but I haven’t the strength. I had a hard time even laughing about it because it was so wrong. So here’s the thought I posit. When do we reach the point in our own work that we cannot see the flaws, cannot hear the criticism, and cannot understand that we are not only not reaching anyone but actually aggravating them? When do we know when to hang it up and keep some musicals to ourselves or for the private salon, if you will. Perform it in a place to be raunchy and stupid without forcing people to pay money to see that we are mindless. Never again to ask the audience to sing, “Me and my clitoris, my clitoris and me.” Never to parody Martha Stewart as Martha Skrewit, a home help guru who recycles the by products of sexual liaison, into slickers and penis-shaped lolly pops. We did not need an entire stage filled with a Swami and his “posse” teaching us to “Keep your rocket in your pocket and your mouse in the house.” If you are laughing at this perhaps you can explain to me when everything, and I do mean everything about sex, became a bad pun? Yarrrrghhhh. Kama Sutra? I think not.