Kerry Healey

Poor Kerry Healey has a 37-room house in Beverly, a rich husband and a good streak job. Yet she has been denied the one thing she wants more than all of that (except the money): the chance to rise to the corner office at the State House. She's no more unqualified than her predecessors, Paul Cellucci and Jane Swift, and a lot prettier, sort of. Yet the Man Upstairs, the well-tonsured Mitt Romney, refuses to head to Washington and won't even consider jobs like Secretary of Homeland Security (problems with la migra, perhaps?). So poor Kerry sits and waits and has lunch and waits some more. You can help . . . or you can ignore her plight.

Lindsay Lohan

Poor Lindsay: despite her, um, surging movie career, not to mention her new status as legal voter and sexpot, she remains one of the truly neediest cases. Her hopes of a singing career have been tragically held back by her lack of pitch, tone and projection. Too, poor Lindsay hopes that she will be able some day to dissolve the myriad restraining orders against her Joey Buttafuoco-like dad. Possible? How should we know? To paraphrase a real singer, we're blinded by the lights.

Craig Kilbourn

Few can remember a Daily Show without Jon Stewart, but many years ago, a smirking ex-jock named Craig Kilbourn occupied the anchor chair and did his best to pretend that he got the jokes.  He famously told Esquire that he could get any woman on the show to blow him, but failed to mention that in fact he was the one that sucked. This record of achievement led CBS to give him the much unconveted slot after David Letterman, where he languished for several years until he decided to hang up his high tops. What's next for the Craigster? Our bet: host of a Winsor Pilates infomercial, which won't interfere with his comeback in the Torrance Studio Dinner Theater production of Sideways. 

The staff of the BBC

It is a bitter Christmas indeed for the very bright lads and ladies of the BBC, who have been ordered to leave their jolly W12 digs and tramp north to the frozen wasteland of something called Manchester, which they have been told is a part of England. Their sacrifice, their commanders say, will ensure parliamentary renewal of the BBC license fee by creating goodwill in marginal constituencies. [Surely, across the breadth of England? – Ed.] Of course, they could always tell Auntie to stick it and take that tempting job offer with CNN in someplace called Atlanta – that is until they are told by previous exiles that the North of England feels like Paris compared to the auto-choked concrete desolation of Redneck [Surely, Red? – Ed.] America.