My sister entered into a bicoastal relationship, and as soon as there were 3,000 miles between them, her boyfriend became a wack job. He told her she shouldn’t come to visit on Halloween weekend, because he would be busy with grad school and things (“things” being a dress-up party where he paraded as a “man riding an ostrich”). Need I say more?

Apparently the stress of the ostrich/man costume was too much for him to handle, especially with the added anxiety of a girlfriend looming over his night of festivities and disguise. So he dumped her, freeing himself from any heterosexual delusions that previously clouded his identity. Now he is the gay tap-dancing “man dressed as a man riding an ostrich” galloping off into the L.A sunset. He is a classic mimbo, and since he dumped her via Skype while lounging in his bed drawing sketches of his ostrich costume, he is also a bit of a wanker.

But next time she sees a man dressed as a man riding an ostrich, she’ll think twice. And probably still date him for a while, but that’s life.

- Haley Hogan

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There is a very guilty hedge-fund manager who is in such a bind that he has put his most precious items up for auction at Christie’s in London. And when I say “precious items,” I am not referring to the typical pimpish goods like vintage wines, contemporary design chairs, and Picasso paintings. I am talking about 1,300 antique Steiff teddy bears and various other “soft toys.”

Paul Greenwood, the mimbo responsible for caring for this tremendous collection of children’s playthings, was also responsible for 553 million dollars worth of fraud. I guess it’s true what they say: “Never trust a man with too many teddy bears in his closet.” I guess that’s not really a known expression, but it seems appropriate.

- Haley Hogan

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Christie’s is one of the oldest and most prestigious fine art auction houses in the world — ostensibly, a place where one might meet a cultivated and interesting man.

I recently popped into their Rockefeller Center headquarters to say hello to a friend during her lunch hour. As I lounged in lobby, I watched an attractive man in a navy suit sauntering back and forth on the sidewalk by the entrance. He would occasionally smirk at his reflection in the building’s glass windowed façade. Obviously, he’s a contemporary art specialist who has bid upwards of thirty million dollars on a Jasper Johns and is rumored to be quite a devil on the croquet courts as well.

I was intrigued to ride the elevator with him back up to the 8^th floor. He smiled seductively before chugging a bottle of acai berry juice, choking, and then spilling his afternoon energy elixir. I suppose this kind of clumsiness can be endearing, but it more or less confirms he’s just another mimbo-disguised-as-a-prince.

- Lizzie Crocker

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Online dating has quickly gone from being a sport restricted to social pariahs to being as normal as going to the gym. People just don’t date anymore, unless it involves a web-based screening process involving anonymous usernames.

So I went for it and joined OkCupid, and my first meet-up for drinks was with a guy I thought would be my male double. It turns out that you NEVER want to date yourself in the form of the opposite sex. And it turns out that if I were a man, I would be a mimbo and talk a lot about gay nightclubs and the “clothing optional dorm” I lived in during college. I would also mention my “energy healer” during first dates with girls.

My one word of advice when braving the sketchy creeper-filled waters of online dating = watch out for people who have exactly the same interests and profiles as you do — chances are they’re gay, and unless you’re a huge narcissist, the sparks might not fly when you are having a drink with yourself.

- Haley Hogan

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I went to Newport for some beach time, since I am so in need of relaxation given that I don’t have a job, don’t go to school, and don’t even volunteer at some altruistic organization.

Newport, Rhode Island stirs up visions of Gatsby, the Jazz Age of overly large summer houses. Nowadays, Newport arouses images of drunken bikers with tattoos passing through town on their way to New Hampshire, and the occasional preppy wearing seersucker and fondling his bride-to-be during their nuptial weekend.

I went to a beach club bar where most of the men were shirtless, too tan, and tattooed, and there were drunken midday bachelorette parties as well. I felt like I was in an episode of Jersey Shore. That show is one of the only trashy American pleasures that I will never understand.

- Haley Hogan

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While interviewing for a “Booking Editor” position at a start-up magazine last week, I was thrown into a model casting to test my skills. One by one, over thirty male and female models pranced — or crept — into the casting room; several were giddy and outwardly confident, but most were unable to mask their diffidence.

The male models were classic mimbos plucked from an Abercrombie & Fitch Quarterly, boasting interests like “surfing, skateboarding, and working out at the gym.” The girls were predominantly waifish, Eastern European imports with delicately sculpted features, wide eyes, and knobby limbs – a collective of frightened deer in headlights – who claimed to “dance” or “play tennis” in their spare time. The twisted theme of the fashion spread was something along the lines of, “A Futuristic Family: The Dominatrix Mother and her Sexually Abused Children.”

Not surprisingly, the Creative Director turned his nose up at the mimbos (their golden-retriever-like affects didn’t fit the mold) and squirmed in excitement over the excessively thin, vulnerable looking Russian and Swedish sylphs. But it’s important that the Booking Editor maintain an air of insouciance in order to intimidate the frail, young models (though they already seemed starved of self-esteem to me).

- Lizzie Crocker

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An adorable American girlfriend of mine has been dating a Frenchie who is, as most Frenchmen are, a little bit effeminate (and a lot mimbo). But this guy wears his silk scarves in such a fashion that makes me think he is quite a closeted homosexual.

Unfortunately, instead of being a sweet boyfriend to this girl–teaching her how to tie scarves, making cocktails, cooking pink-colored beet risotto, and all the other lovely things that gay boyfriends do– he decided to be a first class wanker. Last week he broke up with her, via the phone, and his explanation was: “I’m just not sexually attracted to you — you’re not as skinny as the girls I usually date.”

He could have put it a lot more succinctly and said, “I’m just not sexually attracted to you — because you don’t have a penis.”

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I met a girlfriend for lunch in the Marché des Enfants Rouges, the most charming covered market in all of Paris. Hidden at the corner amidst the sumptuous Moroccan food vendors and freshly picked strawberries, Au Coin Bio was the perfect place to commiserate over our failed love lives and enjoy a scrumptious salad and vegetarian galette (a savory whole-grain or potato pancake).

While sitting in the midday sun and munching on nutritious organic carrots, we both tried to forget about our horrendous dates last night. She has been trying her luck on a dating website targeted toward young, normal people who are not creepy (OkCupid, The Village Voice calls it “A favorite hangout for internet goers”). Her blind date ended up taking her to a basement venue where French 20-somethings do the Lindy Hop, an American swing dance that is apparently having a revival (amongst pretentious Parisian youths). After the series of awkward and sweaty Jazz-Age dance moves, instead of offering to buy her a beer, her date said, “No, you don’t buy drinks here–they’re very expensive.” So this OkCupid website turned out to be more like OkMimbo/OkComeDanceWithMeInASweatyBasementAndBuyYourOwnDrinks.

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Jay McInerney is a New England boy who turned to the cocaine culture of 1980s Manhattan as inspiration for his breakout novel, Bright Lights, Big City. He went from fact-checking at The New Yorker to being part of the “literary brat pack” (along with Bret Easton Ellis), turning his book into a hit Hollywood film, and marrying a string of four different women, each one either a model or an heiress.

But the thing that makes him such a pimp is that he has made a career out of tasting and writing about wine. He recently became a wine critic for The Wall Street Journal. He pontificates about that ever-elusive bottle of $44,000 Dom Perignon rosé champagne. And instead of comparing it “to a summer’s day,” he compares it to “Julianne Moore, a mature pinkish-hued beauty [he'd] seen on the street in the West Village earlier that day.” I suppose this last detail makes him a Mimbo of the Week as well.

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Heidi Montag is the 23-year-old reality television celebrity who went from sweet and natural Colorado girl to botched and butchered Los Angeles pop star … all in a matter of minutes. She recently underwent 10 different plastic surgery procedures in a day, saying that she wanted to become the “perfect” version of herself.

She’s always indicated signs of derangement: she married a sociopathic mimbo-creeper, Spencer Pratt, and the two of them were baptized in the jungle by a born-again Christian minister (a.k.a. the youngest Baldwin brother) on public television. After they were absolved of their sinful hard-partying lifestyle, Spencer and Heidi (a.k.a. “Speidi“) decided to make a series of music videos featuring Heidi’s enlarged breasts on the beach. Well, now her lips (and cheeks, and eyebrow arches, and butt) will be bigger too. And her thighs (and ears, and nose, and chin, and neck) will be smaller.

She might be a talentless celebrity past the brink of sanity, but in a culture saturated by image obsession and body perfectionism, Heidi Montag might also be a dreadful alarm call for a future lived in plastic.

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