Greetings, all of you little people

Like many of you, we get inundated with year-end letters from family and friends updating us on the ups and downs, twists and turns of the year gone by. Still, there were some notable letters missing. Here are some that should have been written:

It’s been quite a year, but what I will remember most is the love I have for Vanessa. We are so happy and in love with each other and ourselves too.

She stood beside me during the darkest time in my life -- you probably heard about it -- my failure to get Laker fans another championship. I accept complete responsibility for the loss, but you try a tomahawk jam over Ben Wallace with fat Shaq, crybaby Malone and pinwheel-eyed Phil on your back. But Vanessa helped me to see that I’m human and you can’t win them all, especially when you’re surrounded by envious losers who drag you down and cloud your judgment.

Did you see the ring I bought my Vanessa? It’s almost as big as my championship rings! My NBA groupies are so jealous. My Memphis one won’t shut up about Vanessa’s ring and wants me to get her one like it. I say, “No way, baby!” A ring that big is the highest form of love you can buy.

Speaking of love, if Malone tries to post up on my beautiful Vanessa -- a goddess that I would never disrespect -- he’ll be sorry he ever left Backwater, Ark., or wherever he comes from. If he even looks her way again, I’m going to find the nearest microphone and I’ll start free-associating with his name.

Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men, except the evil attorneys pursuing that groundless civil suit in Colorado.

Keep it real,

Kobe Bryant

At first, I tried to view this tragic episode as an opportunity for personal growth and not as hard time in the Hicksville state pen or wherever I am. Then I realized that was hopeless. I could bring in basil window treatments, a lilac duvet and copper-colored pillow shams from the Martha collection and this place would still remind me of the black hole of Calcutta.

I reached a spiritual crisis and I turned to my good friend Nelson Mandela. He made it. I know I can too -- and, who knows, maybe I’ll get to be president when I get out too!

I needed a cause like Nelson to keep me alive. His cause

was staying away from Winnie, but that won’t work for me

since she’s already so far

away.

So my cause is going to be me. I’ve been giving, giving, giving to so many for so long, I forgot about me and that’s how I got into this mess. So, don’t worry about me, I’m on the right path and my cause is sacred. I won’t rest until every American home looks as good as mine, but much smaller and cheaper, really. I want people to know in their hearts that there’s no shame in trying to be perfect like me, even when they fall pathetically short.

Enjoy your holiday while I’m in here,

Martha Stewart

Listen up. I want to be clear -- I am not Jacob Marley. Not now, not tomorrow, not yesterday, not in the future, not in the past. Understand? Ask again and you’ll be spending some time in an orange jumpsuit at Gitmo.

If I’m any character out of Dickens, it’s obvious I’m Tiny Tim. Tiny Don, if you like. Albeit a muscular Tiny Don. I was a wrestler at Princeton, you know. I was wiry, lightning quick and devastating on takedowns. I bet I could still pin every pinhead member of the press. Just over Thanksgiving, Dick and I challenged Colin and Condi to a tag-team match. Dick’s got a bad ticker, so I knew I’d be doing all the heavy lifting. I put the moves on Colin and down went Mr. Big Pants and his “overwhelming force” doctrine, slamming right into the mat. Pinned! 1-2-3! Victory!

I don’t even know why I write these blasted cards. Nobody cares about all my hard work. You probably want a lot of flowery mumbo jumbo and Christmas cheer.

We’re at war, people. War. It means killing. Lots of it.

So, this is the Christmas card you get, not the one you want.

Merry Christmas, not happy holidays!

Donald Rumsfeld

Reporting for duty, Santa!

Even though I’m in my 60s, I was very active this year. I did a lot of windsurfing. Maybe you saw the pictures. I went hunting. Maybe you saw the pictures. I played hockey. Maybe you saw the pictures. I went windsurfing again. Maybe you saw those pictures -- I wore different colored trunks than the first time out. I hugged my wife, my two daughters and however many stepsons I have. Maybe you saw the pictures. I’ve got some extra if you need any. They’re just terrific.

I gave mouth-to-mouth to my daughter’s pet opossum. You didn’t see those pictures because the photographer didn’t show up on time -- and then it turned out it was only a stuffed animal. But it’s the thought that counts, right? So we sold the rights to Pixar and they’re planning to release “Swiftboat Kerry Saves an Opossum” before the Iowa caucuses next election cycle! That should be a nice bounce.

Well, Teresa just flip-flopped on the bed with another bag of large bills. Man, is she rich and she can tell me to shove it in four languages. Sizzlin’ hot!

Happy, merry, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa and winter solstice!

John Kerry

I continued to maintain my ultra-successful career, two marriages, three extramarital affairs, and a half-dozen, occasional, no strings-attached flings whenever I get lonely. Until the recent unpleasantness, none of them knew about the other and many still don’t since I forbid most of them from seeing the news.

To my mind, the conduct of secret affairs makes me the perfect candidate to run Homeland Defense. I mean, when the director talks to the FBI, you don’t want the CIA or the NSC to know about it -- unless you want them to get jealous ‘cuz that gets their engine going. Which is sometimes the case, you never know.

And even if they do find out, I know what to do if they get crazy and, say, slash my tires or send in false change of address cards to the post office.

Merry ... wait, I’ve got a call on my super-secret private line,

Bernard Kerik

So, in the end, coaching at USC was just too much pressure for me given my current medical condition. Also, there’s no Krispy Kreme near campus.

My goal in the coming year is to find a low-stress job. Maybe a quiet government job -- like Homeland Security chief. I hear there’s an opening.

Merry Fatburger and a Happy New Chili Cheese Fries!

Rick Majerus