Eskewpades

  Peevie Steevie   By Steve Eskew Recently, my therapist nearly nodded off while I was explaining the complexities involved with my various pet peeves.   I was indeed peeved with her disinterest and asked in an acid tone: “Would you like some toothpicks to prop your eyes open until the session is over?” “What I would like ,” she said, “is for you to answer the question without pontificating: Tell me in one sentence––what’s the origin of your preposterous pet peeve obsession? I groaned. “Okay. Two words: toy hog.” “I beg your pardon?”   “Simply put, I was nine months old and my older brother habitually grabbed every toy I ever played with. I eventually reacted by pulling out a handful of his hair. ‘Nuff said?” The therapist glowered at me pityingly and submitted that such a magic memory borders on delusion, that someone else must have told me about the incident and I’ve simply imagined my maniacal fury.   My latest pet peeve? Know-it-all therapists. As a mild-mannered reporter, working