Mike Sasso never dreamed of being a writer. In fact, he never even crossed his mind. His childhood dream was to be a professional baseball player or the guess host on the fifties TV Show “What’s My Line.” But never a writer.
In fact, he began his writing career without really knowing it. It all started one lonely afternoon on the atrium, a small outdoor patio located in the center of his house, where he found himself unconsciously writing his personal thoughts on scrap pieces of paper, unopened envelopes and in the gutters of old newspapers.
These writings were not meant to be shared with others. These were private thoughts. Nasty thoughts. Sometimes cruel and hateful thoughts. They were a secret. His secret. But not for long.
It was early summer in Southern California. The night was warm, but soften by a cool ocean breeze. Sasso and his wife had innocently, and quite graciously I might add, invited some old friends over for dinner. The guests arrived appropriately late and never made it past the atrium, where they immediately sat down outside and consumed more than their share of the cheap hor d’oeuvres from Trader Joe’s. Meanwhile, Mr. Sasso was busy cooking pasta in the kitchen, listening to classic rock from the sixties and early seventies and drinking too much cheap red wine. Also from Trader Joe’s. Little did he know what was about to happen.
One of his guests, while reaching for yet another dip of humus, accidentally dropped his entire hor d’oeuvres onto the table. During the process of cleaning up his mess and apologizing profusely, he discovered that his humus mess had landed on an envelope that was completely covered in handwritten words. He quickly wiped the envelope clean with his napkin and intently looked over the writing and, without any concern for individual privacy laws, began reading it. In moments he was laughing, hysterically. “What the fuck is this,” he exclaimed? “Hey Mike, did you write this shit? This is some funny shit, very funny shit. Do you have anymore?” The rest, of course, is history.