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COUNTERPOINT: Hey Asshole– You’re Not Getting No Hockey Because You’re a Dumb Baboon

February 21, 2013 Leave a comment

By Frank “Big Shit” Barbey
Veteran of the Depths War
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Hey asshole!  You can forget about getting hockey in The Depths.  Know why?  Cause you’re a dumb baboon, that’s why.

I didn’t watch my boys from the 118th get put in them cages back in the Depths War so you can go ahead and start skating around and playing hockey.  Granted, them cages were just a careful square of traffic cones and most of my boys walked right out of ’em but it doesn’t make it any better.  And granted, you always gave us pretty good dinners back there in the holding basement but you and me are enemies.  I put my foot down as a veteran– no god damn baboons in the Pondicherry Association.

I’m going to write a bunch of letters.

The opinions of Frank “Big Shit” Barbey are not necessarily those of the Pondicherry Association News.

POINT: Pondicherry Should Expand to “The Depths”

February 21, 2013 Leave a comment

By Phil Miller
Depths Correspondent
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Now that the Pondicherry Association has expanded to Hoover Island, it would seem that the natural next step would be to offer a franchise to a syndicate in “The Depths”.

What do we have to offer?  A top-notch arena for one.  “Depths Facial Tissue Plaza” is one of the largest indoor venues in the world, offering seating for over 60,000.  The impressive structure also houses businesses, offices, kiosks and carts, and a large area where trucks can back in and unload their cargo.  Individuals can also use this same area for discharging their own personal loads from their sacks.

And yet, “Depths Facial Tissue Plaza” remains largely unused.  Sure, we have an occasional “funny circus” but such events fail to bring honor to our great arena and our great land.   We need hockey and we need it now.

I urge the Pondicherry Association to consider “The Depths” as their next stopping point on their great road to world expansion.

The opinions of Phil Miller are not necessarily those of The Pondicherry Association News.

“Inner Hammer” Ponders the Myriad Coruscations of Immolation and Abnegation and Time

February 21, 2013 Leave a comment

By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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Sources are confirming that Small Pizzas GM “Inner Hammer” today pondered the myriad coruscations of immolation and abnegation and time.  The reflection occurred at a Teets Island “Horn of Comfy” hotel ballroom where a large “pre-breakfast” of bacons and cranny-free waffles were served.

“Yeah, yo, I’ve been pondering the afterlife and all that,” said the executive, who grew frustrated with the fissure-less waffles and their difficulty in accepting generous dollops of butter.  “You think about fire and you think about time and, yo, that shit’ll wake you up in the middle of the night.”

“Inner Hammer” paused to hurl an over-handled waffle into a trash receptacle.

“Bad idea these waffles,” he noted.  “You need to have those crannies to accept your butter.  You just can’t deposit any butter without a good cranny.”

“Inner Hammer” moaned loudly.

The Small Pizzas are currently in third place in the Pondicherry Association.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Horrible Pig Monster Family Disturbs Fans at Stamps Contest

February 20, 2013 Leave a comment

By Grady Kitchens
Senior Staff Writer
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A family of horrible pig monsters disturbed fans last night in a league contest between the Stamps and the Small Pizzas on Hoover Island.

Sources are confirming that the pig monsters purchased their tickets and sat quietly in the upper deck but that their mere presence caused many of the 54 fans in attendance to leave by the second period.

“I just felt that I couldn’t be in the same building as a horrible family of pig monsters,” said Stamps fan Earl Cron of Northern Hoover Island.  “I just kept watching them out of the corner of my eye to see what they would do.  At any moment, I anticipated pig chaos.  I couldn’t concentrate on the game.”

Cron, who is a traditional Hoover Island nudist, was later accidentally lanced.

“It was felt we could not evict the family,” stated Stamps owner and island monarch Aaron Tucker.  “They paid legally and were among the most well-behaved of the extremely paltry, pathetic crowd that we had in attendance last night.   We held a brief quorum and made the decision despite their odious presence.”

The father of the horrible pig family was later interviewed.

“We came to show our support for hockey on Hoover Island,” said the swine, who was drooling in an utterly repellent fashion.  “I think you’re really starting to see the effect that hockey is having here and, you know, I feel like that’s something to be proud of.”

The beast then wandered into the gift shop and purchased some hats and cotton candy.

The Stamps are currently exploring options on what to do if the family attempts to attend further games.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Chat Sessions with Dick Oakes, Jr.

February 19, 2013 1 comment

By Dick Oakes, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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Senior Staff Writer

Clints Stunt is a Terrifying Bat fan.  He works everyday in a convenience store.  He has a girlfriend named Peggy.

“Eddie-Baby” Rice is a Darkness fan.  He owns a silo.  He sells grain on the weekends.  He pays country girls for coitus.

Lisa Boots is a Small Pizzas fan.  She runs a company that brings melons to stores.  She is married to a man but not in a particularly serious way.

Hockey fans, all.  But is there any further link?  I sat down with all three at a table in a basement.

DO:  So, let’s have a chat session here.  Who wants to open?
ER: I’ll open. I feel that you can look at me and say, “That guy, he’s a barometer.”
DO: A barometer of what?
ER: Values.
LB: Let me cut you off. We have a big cardboard container. It’s open at the top and we pour the melons in there. Every time, there’s this little wormy guy who appears out of the darkness with some grapes.
CS: So what? What’s that got to do with anything?
ER: You look at me and you think, “Now there’s what a Lankvillian man should be about”.
DO: OK, let’s settle down here. Lisa, I think that everyone in the room knows that you and Clint have some unspoken bond.
LB: I guess I feel it.
CS: I admit it.
DO: Clint, what turned you on right away?
CS: I’d say her round pig-like ass. It conforms to a series of ideas and memories that I have.
DO: Fair enough. Lisa, what turned you on to Clint?
LB: The way he carried that box of coffee in here. Something about the curve of his hand. It was deeply erotic and yet unsettling.
DO: Eddie-Baby, that kind of leaves you out of the loop. How do you feel?
ER(crying): I’m alright…I…
DO: Thanks everyone.

Dick Oakes’ new series will continue in further issues.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Royer Changes Name to “One Who Uses it Daily”

February 19, 2013 Leave a comment

By Tito Presentation
Distinctive Reporter
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Terrifying Bats GM Cor Scorpionis (formerly Ric Royer) confirmed this morning that he has changed his name to “One Who Uses it Daily”.

A small press conference was given in the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness dining hall to a sparse crowd of early-rising reporters.

“One Who Uses it Daily” appeared in a crimson road while carrying an illuminated porcelain Christmas structure.  He paused to liberally lather up a bagel with cream cheese, then proceeded to the lectern.

“It is our [the executive nodded to the Christmas structure] hope that this new sobriquet will evoke our daily life lessons, the creation of a limitless cell of wonder that cannot be contained by four simple walls.  We [the executive nodded again to the Christmas structure] have discovered a new source of inspiration and we have every intent to use this source daily. Now, please, enjoy some of these bread products, traditionally shaped by hand in the form of a ring*”.

The reporters then rushed the bagel table resulting in one stomping death.

Later, “One Who Uses it Daily” gave a brief speech before his cell.

“You’ll note that our [again, Royer nodded to the Christmas structure] nametag reads “Royysticks”.  Although it is spelled incorrectly, it is in reference to my given name and this is no longer applicable.  It should read “One Who Uses it Daily and Partner”.  The individuals that claim hegemony over this wretched community have yet to come to terms with the ephemeral.”

“One Who Uses it Daily” suddenly became dazed and entered a long period of psychogenic fugue.  The interview was ended prematurely.

*Commonly known as bagels.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Why Don’t You All Just Eat Some Shit?

February 18, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

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You start complaining to me about those balloons or about the price of gas or about the line to buy new dungarees and I’m gonna’ tell you all the same thing.  Why don’t you all just eat some shit?

If you want, I’ll help you.  You can even sit at my own fucking table, long as you don’t mind a fucking leaky tractor transmission in front of you.  Not like a tractor does anything at all to that asshole of a desert.  Throws dirt up in the air so that it just settles again, that big bitch.  I know my brother-in-law ripped me off on that one; we all knew he come from gypsies.

You can complain all you want about it but I’ll say it and they’ll say it– why don’t you all just eat some shit?

Can you believe the cost of a fucking stamp?

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was actually assigned no article at all.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 17, 2013 3 comments

By Chris Vitiello
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I took refuge in a train tunnel alcove.  The transmogrified passed quickly before me.  I could hear their strange, echoing grunts far down track.  Then they were gone.  I headed back the way I came in.

At the tunnel mouth, I noticed something queer in another alcove.  There was a little old man there, seated on a chair reading a modern paperback.  He was clad in a tan great coat, a dark regency vest and, for some reason, a white soft bonnet.  Upon my approach, he quickly removed the bonnet.

He stood up and put his hands on the long lapels of the great coat thereby affecting a rather stately look.

“Did you see the transmogrified?” I asked.

“Yes, yes I did,” he responded, in a gentle, grandfatherly way; I had only a slight desire to whip him.  “Spirits are reacting to your…your construction up there,” he said, waving disconsolately in the direction of Fire Point.

He had raised my ire.  “What concern is it of yours, old man?  It was my thirst to purchase this Godforsaken hill and I have quenched it with the building of quonset huts.  I could build even more, if I wish.”

He laughed.  “Oh, I would advise against that.”  His round eyeglasses somehow twinkled in the nigh-darkness.  “I know you, I remember you from the village,” he suddenly added.

I studied his face further.  He remained a stranger.

“No, it was long ago.  Your father and I once purchased a barrel together.  55 gallons– it was a beauty.  But we argued constantly over it.  I wanted to fill the barrel with this, he wanted to fill the barrel with that.  There were over twelve fistfights.  Finally, one sodden night, your father dumped the barrel into the river.  It was a good thing, too, because it had been my intent to kill him, chop him up and send his remains down the river in that very barrel so…”  He trailed off.

“What point are you trying to emphasize, you codger?”

“Actually, my very reason for purchasing the barrel was to dispose of remains….and perhaps…if someone needed sauces…or…”  He trailed off again.

I left him.  I was resolved to conquer Fire Point.

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

February 15, 2013 1 comment

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
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In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Association reporter Fingers Rolly.  And yet, I always found myself wanting more.  Who is Fingers Rolly?  What are his thoughts?  Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti.  His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure.  There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further.  A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop.  Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre.  Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic.  I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself.  “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer.  “You’ll have to try another day.”  But I am resolute.  I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops.  Nothing moves.  No sound can be heard from within.  “Fingers?” I call out.  I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open.  I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room.  There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them.  I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO!  GO AWAY!  LEAVE!  I DO NOT WANT YOU!  I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber.  I move towards it.  It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust.  And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer.  He is shaking and moaning.  He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around.  He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged.  On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask.  I find a chair on the opposite side of the table.  There is an ancient transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly.  This goes on for four hours straight.  As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner.  Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now.  “Go ahead, you fucking asscake.  Who’s stopping you?”  He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.

Royer Purchases Mutant Sea Monster

February 14, 2013 1 comment

By Larry “God” Peters
Far-Flung Areas Correspondent
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Incarcerated Terrifying Bats GM Cor Scorpionis (formerly Ric Royer) has purchased a mutant sea monster, sources are now confirming.

“There was a nuclear leak off the coast of Lankville and my people immediately made me aware of a most spectacular mutant sea monster that arose out of a drainage canal,” noted Cor Scorpionis, who submitted to a short press conference.  “At first, the creature terrorized and ultimately killed several winos and hippies that were sitting nearby but he was eventually corralled and brought to market where my people were fortunate enough to place the winning bid.”

A special basin at an undisclosed location has been constructed for the creature, Cor Scorpionis also announced.

“I’ve been looking for a new special pal ever since Mr. Chops was abducted,” noted the executive, in reference to his recently-lost dog.

A long pause ensued which ceased only when Cor Scorpionis began vomiting heavily.  The interview was then ended.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,

Woman in a Man’s Game

February 13, 2013 Leave a comment

By Robin Brox
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A lot of people ask me, they say– Robin, how do you run your uncolored condiment factory?  I smile knowingly, this unnerves them.  Then, they say– uncolored condiment factories in the past have been exclusively the domain of men, how did you compete with them and ultimately drive their obviously inferior products off the grocery shelves?  And I tell them about “The Limelight”.  “Boys,” I say, “I could see the limelight before me.  And I grabbed it.”  It’s around this time that I run my finger seductively down the pool cue.  That really drives them wild.

The windowless billiards room at Gelsinger’s French Toast is decorated with giant, blackened pizza oven spatulas.  Their wooden handles betray the marks of many a knife fight.  “My relatives ran such restaurants for years,” notes Gelsinger himself, who occasionally wanders into the hall to change a lightbulb or urinate in the doorless latrine.  “Then, the act of preparing and cooking a pizza was not the banal act it is now,” he continues.  “My relatives had to fend off constant attacks.  Many were killed and quickly replaced.  It was the way of the hills.”  Everyone ignores him.

Inevitably, some young rube will call out, My God, Ms. Brox.  You’re so…so rich.  So…so in absolute command of Lankville’s uncolored condiment supply.  I can see that the rube has become flush, is almost shaking.  “Eat this,” I’ll say, handing him a block of pool chalk.  “You’ll then know a small portion of what I went through to get to the top.”  And the rube will naturally devour it.  “One of you corncobbers,” I’ll suddenly bark.  “Bring me a new block of chalk.  Johnny Fuckbrain here has eaten mine.”  And someone will quickly hand me the desired object.  And I’ll place the cue between my legs, chalk the tip slowly and sensuously while girlishly proclaiming, “Ooh, it’s like I’m riding a donkey, scratching the donkey’s head!  Scratching the donkey’s head.”  A murmur goes up around the room.

Minutes later, I crack the stick over my knee.  And I laugh and laugh and laugh as I leave the room.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 12, 2013 Leave a comment

By Chris Vitiello
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The driveway had been cleared and repaved and I instructed the driver to proceed to the top.  He seemed tentative and for a moment there was no movement.  “What is the problem, Throats?” I asked.  Throats fingered the steering wheel.  “I got a feeling, boss.  It came over me suddenly like the odor of freshly-spun cotton candy at a small backyard event overlooking a cracked alley.  This place is damned.”

“You are not the first to offer this mongoloid explanation, Mr. Throats.”  I urged him on.  I was suddenly quite hungry.

At the top, some workmen were listlessly pushing long steel rods beneath rocks or buffing the smooth edges of the quonset huts. I located the foreman, a grim little man with a pinched face and abbreviated womanish feet.  He was running a moistened towel over his forehead and neck and staring down at the earth.  He did not look up at my approach.

I wound the whip around my shoulder.  It was gold-braided and appeared striking against my shapeless purple chemise.

“What is the trouble here?”  I was suddenly hit with a stream of bad air.

“No trouble,” the foreman said, continuing to stare at the dirt.  “We are all hexed, we are all without hope but the quonset huts are excellent.  Better than I expected.  Remarkable staying power, these quonset huts.”

A fiery balloon suddenly crashed into a cliff across the valley.  Screams could be heard in the distance.  Still, the foreman did not look up.  And it was then that I noticed the horrible transmogrification.

It became deathly still.  Throats, who stood beside me in his decorative ham driving uniform, suddenly expired.  The foreman turned his head slightly to stare at the fallen.  He grinned and it was then that I could see that his teeth had dramatically sharpened and that his eyes had turned an ungodly pale shade of green.  I spun and saw that the workers had all gathered together and that they too were changing.  An interminable period of tension ensued.  And then I began running off into the woods.

A path led away from the former seminary and deep into the forest.  Dilapidated religious statuary could be seen every fifty feet and, in several places, small temples, covered in graffiti.   There is no type of person that deserves to be whipped more than the so-called graffiti artist I thought to myself.  But now was no time for such profundity.  The transmogrified were right behind me.

To be continued.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 11, 2013 Leave a comment

By Chris Vitiello
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It overlooked my village on a steep hill of rocks and crags, accessible via a brush-choked driveway and a series of dilapidated staircases.  It had been the home of the Maldonado Brothers Seminary and for many years had provided great spiritual warmth for a few select pasty individuals.  But it had long since closed, fallen into shocking disrepair, been the site of vigorous and yet jejune coitus and then left forgotten.  I purchased the site three years ago.

There had been many mysterious fires– 246 by the realtor Gorcheck’s count.  “It became known as Fire Point,” he noted, as he kicked an errant piece of mortar into the woods.  I desired to whip him but remained calm.  “You’ll note that the building is a shell and that it is about to fall over,” he said, looking away.  “But the grounds are nice and you sure can’t beat the view of the valley.”

Gorcheck was right, on both counts.  The once-magnificent four story seminary had been utterly destroyed– only a skeleton remained.  A small outbuilding and various sheds sat surrounding, their doors open in a frank, almost sexual way.  But one could plainly see all of the valley and the village below, my hometown.

I wrote the realtor a check.  He was shocked.  “There is some paperwork, we can’t just…”  I pushed him into some leaves.  “Mind yourself, Mr. Gorcheck.  Mind yourself.”  My hand twitched over the hidden whip but I abstained.

I contracted to have the seminary demolished and several senseless quonset huts constructed.  “A fiery balloon crashed into the cliff,” the foreman told me over the phone after two weeks had passed.  “But otherwise things are progressing as outlined.”  There was something tentative about his lower class voice that made me both desire to whip him and to probe him further.  “It sounds as if there is something else,” I queried.  There was a long silence.  A noise like a basketball being shoved into a closet could be heard in the background.  Finally, he responded.

“We…well…many of the men believe that the site is damned.  It may be something that you need to see for yourself.”

I resented being called away from my decorative ham business but I made the trip to the great hill.

To be continued.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Grocery Depository

February 10, 2013 1 comment

By Cor Scorpionis (formerly Ric Royer)
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I put some gum in my mouth and violently pushed open the sliding glass doors.  The Grocery Depository* lay before me.  “Better get a clock out, cause the big man’s here” I said loudly, as I strode past the service desk.  “Yep, mark that down on your time sheets.”

I got a cart and filled it with pancake mixes and hot dogs.  “I don’t know what any of you are looking at,” I said to other customers, “but what I’m looking at is none other than a collection of people WHO DON’T KNOW HOW TO LIVE.”  Then I turned over the cart.  Mix went everywhere.  I produced a woman’s wig from my coat and put it on.

The security guard came around.  He had a chubby pink face.

“What are you trying to pull?” he said.

“You have a little office?,” I asked.  I put more gum in my mouth.  “Because I would advise you to go back there, back to your little office.”  I stared straight through him, snapping the gum.

Everything broke down after that.

The next thing I remember is burying my head in a series of mollusk pillows.  A fire had been built and the carpet was an aged yellow color.  Laughing could be heard in the next room.  I was offered some sweet wine out of a child’s beach pail.

“You should look at the fountain that Clarence built,” someone offered.  I was led down a gravel driveway.  A tiled fountain sat at its entrance.  It was terrible, just a miserable idea, poorly-executed.  A statue depicting a nude cherub had been mounted in the middle.  A thin stream of water trickled out of its anus.  “Clarence hooked it up improperly,” someone admitted.  “Otherwise, it’s beautiful though.”  I could hear crying behind me but I dared not turn around.

Then, I was sitting in Warden Jenness’ office.  He had evidently been talking for some time and pointing to a document on the desk before me.  I focused.  Inmates are not permitted entrance into the kitchen.  I looked up.

“How many pancake mixes were lost?” I asked.

“Twenty, maybe twenty-five.”

I began screaming, then sobbing quietly.  I was led back to my cell.

*popular Lankville grocery chain

Expansion Stamps Contest Draws Record Low Crowd

February 9, 2013 2 comments

By Clifford Griffey
Contemporary Junior Chronicler
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A contest last night between the Small Pizzas and the expansion Hoover Island Stamps drew just 2  1/2 fans, a record-low attendance for a Pondicherry Association league game.

“It’s disappointing,” noted owner and GM Aaron Tucker, whose club has been mired in last place all season.  “There was a lot going on on Hoover Island last night.  The big naked festival, an historical reenactment of an old creamery, some TV shows.  But still, we were hoping for a better turnout.”

The Stamps were initially drawing well but attendance has faded considerably in the past week.

“I was surprised,” said Hoover Island resident Dale Gumms, who was one of the fans in attendance last night.  “It was so quiet, so empty.  After the first period, all the [arena] staff just kind of left.  They even started to dim the lights.  No music was played.  It was rather eerie.”

Gumms was later found murdered.

“We’ll have to look at options,” stated Tucker, who is also monarch of the island nation.  “Perhaps issue some booklets.  Or shovels,” the executive added before wandering away.

The Stamps are currently in last place in the Pondicherry Association.

Categories: 2012-13 Season Tags: ,