Michael Pena is going to be playing an ant in Ant-Man. Sick, right? Naw, I’m just kidding. No idea who he is playing. But I mean…Probably an ant, right? And I’m excited. ‘Cause dude was great in American Hustle. And dude was even better in Eastbound & Down. Getting into that epic boobies versus bums conversation with Kenny. Never forget.

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Absalom Fabliaux had drained fifteen Pepsi-Colas and he felt like a goddamn king.

Sitting in the bar for the better part of four hours, Absalom whittled away at a couple of chapters, clickety-clackin’ at his keyboard with little regard for his surroundings. Smarmy suits and slicked-back trustfunds poured shots into the fertile secretaries that’d someday be their suburban broodmares. Y’know, after accounts were conquered and four-oh-one-kays secured and dividends divided. The digital music lasered its way into their brains, encouraging the Vanilla Paste People to strut their stuff.

And still, Absalom forged ahead, undeterred.

His writer-comrades didn’t understand why he’d write in the midst of such chaos. Unlike him, they flocked to their studies and libraries and offices and espresso bars. But Absalom Fabliaux never found himself more distracted than when he tried to work in such venues. To him, these places were the domiciles of good — silence and thought and books, which contain no little amount of that stuff called the Incredible. And, of course, coffee.

Absalom Fabliaux could never count on making a deadline if he set up shop in a Den of Wonder.

His office? An upscale bar in the financial district. His workday? Happy hour until close. In the eye of the storm, Absalom Fabliaux knew he’d get work done. Zero temptation to talk to anyone. A consistent environment, day-in and day-out. With the rot in his periphery, he had just enough white noise to fuel his words. And to top it all off, the place served glass-bottle Pepsis.

As he requested another, Absalom chuckled to himself. “I’ll be goddamned if I’m not the only bastard who should’ve been cut off but ain’t.”

Absalom Fabliaux had drained sixteen Pepsi-Colas and he knew himself to be a goddamn king.

This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I spew words at you in the form of a short story or vomit-essay. Then, I show you the entertainment-debris I’ll be rummaging through in the next days. Lastly, you hit up the comments section and tell everyone what you’ll be doin’ to get through the week.

Rock and roll, baby!

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Here’s the trailer David O. Russel’s latest jam, American Hustle. The trailer doesn’t feature much in the way of exposition but eh, who fucking cares? Tired of seeing trailers that spit out the entire premise. Instead we’re treated to Christian Bale with righteous shitty hair, Amy Adams in a swimsuit, and Led Zepplin. A fairest of trades.

Hit the jump to check it out.

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