This time of year, I find myself in the mid-holiday grumps. I've come down off the tryptophan-and-sugar-fueled happiness of Thanksgiving, and it's too soon to start cracking open my mead and setting the Yule log alight.

But the advertisers are doing their level best to keep me happy ... and in the process, they're annoying me to the point that I'm contemplating pulling an Elvis on my office television.

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Chief among the offenders, as they so often are since that charming old gray-haired lady died, are the Old Navy commercials. The disturbingly peppy, demographically-perfect choir that pops up in odd places singing the praises of Old Navy's products (not one of which fits my shrinking but still XXXL body), repeated at five-minute intervals during prime time, makes me wish for a plague of muteness.

Why can't the homeowner in one of the commercials, surprised by the choir in his attic, decide to defend his property rights and start laying about with a Louisville Slugger? Hmmm ... perhaps the folks who make the bats might start airing their own commercial ...

Then there's Enzyte, the "once-a-day pill for natural male enhancement." They've run a bizarrely cheerful campaign featuring Bob, a grinning idiot who's entire sense of self-worth apparently comes from his schwanz, and a variety of phallic imagery including a garden hose.

For Christmas, they've put Bob in a Santa suit at what appears to be an office holiday party. Apparently, Bob works for Victoria's Secret, because the women in the office all look like they came straight off a catwalk. All the women are whispering to each other and casting pointed looks at Bob's nether regions. Finally, we see all the women lined up to (wait for it) ... sit on Santa's lap. Bob smiles.

This disturbs me on all sorts of levels, from the little kid who used to go see Santa to the man who's worn the red suit. Santa as a sex object? That's just flat sick and wrong.

Yes, I KNOW there are Web sites where you can see such things. You keep looking at those and you'll go blind.

There is, however, one very bright spot on the advertising landscape. Gods bless Richard Branson for Virgin Mobile, and their Christma-Hana-Kwanza-Kah commercial. It's a complete hoot, with a cavalcade of snarky imagery and sly grins.

And while I'm complaining, I actually did let off a round at my TV on Tuesday night. I had thoroughly enjoyed my yearly viewing of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," the finest holiday special ever created, and was suffused with all manner of holiday happiness. Then, I heard the familiar Peanuts theme song start up again and I perked up my ears, expecting some heretofore-unseen bit of Charles Schulz' genius.

I was sadly disappointed. What came on the screen was some sort of new Peanuts "holiday special," with new voices in the old roles and absolutely none of the insight into kids or warm humor Schulz injected into his characters. The music was horrible, the animation even worse than those original, cherished shows and the storyline was almost unintelligible.

Why? Why? Why? "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is perfection in and of itself. Why try to cash in and force out another half-hour? It's like eating the perfect pizza ... and following it with a slice of moldy bread.

And now, before I lose my Yuletide spirit completely, let's see if there's anything on the Weird Wires to cheer me up.

Dream Girl

Tired of dating women who'll only eat salad? Whose idea of a big meal is the kiddie hamburger? Allow me to introduce Sonya Thomas, the current reigning champ in the world of meatball eating.

Known as "The Black Widow," Sonya left her closest competitor a pound behind, downing 89 meatballs to win the title in Atlantic City, N.J.

Sonya holds or has held records in many categories, including hard-boiled eggs (52 in five minutes), Buffalo wings (5.09 pounds in 12 minutes) and raw oysters (36 dozen in 12 minutes).

Now, granted, she hasn't faced off against me, yet. I'm betting I could take her in the Buffalo wings contest. The hard-boiled eggs record is just flat scary, though. I'd probably have to resort to poking her in the stomach at some point.

Urban Legend Of The Week

We haven't run one of these in a while, but the recent furor about telemarketers calling cellphones has prompted me to dust off the category.

There's been an e-mail circulating warning the reader that his or her cellphone will soon be deluged with telemarketer calls thanks to a directory being put together by wireless service providers. It warns the recipient to put his or her cellphone number on the national do-not-call list to avoid these calls.

While putting your cellphone number on the do-not-call list is a good idea, the story about the directory needs some serious clarification: There IS a directory being compiled, but it's only for directory assistance. Thus, a telemarketer would have to call 411 for every single number desired. That's not likely to happen.

One caution: if you've "ported" your old home phone number to your cellphone, it may well be on some telemarketer lists.

Got mysterious reindeer prints in the back yard? Santa burgling the garden shed? Let me know! Professions of undying love, large cash grants and freshly-baked cookies always accepted.

Previous Stories:

• Dec. 3, 2004: I Lost On 'Jeopardy,' Baby
• Nov. 19, 2004: Mustard Fans, Unite!
• Nov. 12, 2004: My Life As A Rennie
• Nov. 5, 2004: Why Can't They Be Like Us?
• Oct. 29, 2004: The Haunted Column
• Oct. 15, 2004: Going Ghost Hunting, Part 2
• Oct. 8, 2004: Going Ghost Hunting, Part 1
• Oct. 1, 2004: So Weird It's Scary
• Sep. 24, 2004: I'm A Lumberjack ...
• Sep. 17, 2004: Barkeep, More Grog!