Eskewpades

  Eskew? Nah, Call Me Askew . By Steve Eskew Wouldn’t ya know, just as I was considering the purchase of a pogo stick––Bang! A cluster of doddering maledictions have descended upon my hunky-funky physique.   My leg! My arm! My derrière!   Maybe I deserve my present dismay. For years I’ve shamed people for their trivial gripes. I’d say, “Oh, quit your bellyaching, you wimp. If you think you’ve got it bad, just turn on the TV and watch the news.” Talk about practicing what you preach. Presently, I’m hosting a huuuge pity party for myself. For a guy who’s loaded with self-adoration, I’m stupefied to realize that I’m equally loaded with self-pity. Who knew? Recently, I’ve come down with a severe case of   “a catch in me get-alongs”––not age-related, I swear. Too young for that.   As a matter of fact, I’ve always hated to hear old people gripe about their aches and pains. So, I hereby promise I’ll never be guilty of such an atrocity when I do get old.   However, that’s then, this is now: M