Closing his book the Lampshade Weasel smiles, “Well hello there, that time already eh?”
Snapping his fingers his maids steps forward. Leaning in towards him her she lowers herself further into his gaze, the shifting of her generous cleavage threatening the integrity of the French maid’s outfit. Drawing the envelope from between her assets he slits it open with a claw and reads the enclosed letter.

“Ah, this week I’m asked what’s the deal with Rubenesque women? Interesting indeed.”

“Back in the 16th century artist Sir Peter Paul Rubens was looking for life models which to paint. And nothing’s more popular to paint than naked girls… which reminds me… you never want to see the original version of Whistler’s Mother…”

Shivering the weasel pauses for a second then take a sip of his drink to refresh his pallet and calm his nerves.

“However there was a serious problem. Months earlier fictional explorer Thaddeus Hatwearer has gone on a tour of Egypt, visiting its many monuments, Necropolises, and on three occasions, its bordellos.” Returning to Europe not only did he inadvertently bring a case of the Clap, but also three hundred and two angry mummies. Although they themselves were not on his person or in his luggage, instead they ambled along as best they could. Like a marathon in super slow motion. As to why they were angry with Sir Hatwearer has been lost to time, but I’m sure it’s a dozy!”

“Rampaging through the towns they brought death and decay wherever went. But in the end they were no match for the numerous adventuring parties of the day who had been sitting around waiting for a Crusade to form up. Fighting back against the undead mass they laid waste to them for their countries, for their honor, and boatloads of experience points and the loot.”

“However they were a bit overzealous in their actions, and the super scrawny models of the day were often mistaken for these roaming undead, especially how a serious lack of nutrition made their frail bodies twitch and their voices weak with hunger, giving them a low groaning sound as they tried to speak.”

“Sadly, the exp value of the models was severely less than those of actual undead but it was all too late the deed was done. Looking for substitute models many artists turned towards women that actually looked like women. And thus a newfound appreciation of the full figured gal flourished across the land. Many artists now remarking: ‘Why were we looking at those skinny bitches in the first place?’”

Noting the time the Lampshade Weasel slipped out from his seat and adjusted his robes, “Now then if you’ll excuse me it’s past nightfall and Farmer McBikken’s chicken coop should be unguarded. Until next time!”