Monday, May 17, 2010

movin' on up.

It is time we say farewell to Blogger.
...but certainly not to blogging.
You kidding us?
Like PH will ever go out of style.
Check out our new digs for the most blindingly sexy experience of your life, as well as a detailed explanation of why this is The Right Thing for us bitches and what awesome things it means for you bitches in the future.
It's been real, Blogger, but we gotta keep up with Consol Energy Center.
Too many of your seats were limited view. will lead you to a new and improved location by the end of the day. (Hopefully. If disaster strikes, it'll be tomorrow at the latest. We hope. )

Until then, feel free to click below to check the new pad.

And as always,
Go Pens.

EDIT: comments now work on the new site. Please read the post and throw your comments in the bag. Make irrational demands also.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

finals wtf

If you want to catch like the second half of the third period of the Sharks/Hawks game, it's on NBC.
Tonight, Philadelphia and Montreal will go at it.
We have all kinds of differing opinions within the Ranks of PH about this year's conference finals, but rooting for "whoever wins in the West" is probably a safe bet for Pens fans.
Joe Thornton caressing the Cup like an inebriated woman in the back of a dark piano bar would be kind of hot, though.
Uh yeah we don't even know.
It's a warm afternoon.
Go Pens.
And everyone else who doesn't suck balls.

The PH train will be rolling into some big changes in the next few days, too.
Stay alert.

Friday, May 14, 2010


The Flyers complete a 3-0 comeback in Boston to take the series 4-3.
Michael Leighton hanging on to win a playoff series?
Who'd've thought a few years ago when he was letting in like 7 goals a game for the Canes a few years ago when they decided to let Wardo sit and eat his Honey Bunches of Oats cereal bars?

No clue what to say about all this.

This might be the most difficult series to watch in years. Or, you know, since last time the Devils played.

no clue

So much weird symmetry in these playoffs.
Mellon Arena's tenure as the home of the Pittsburgh Penguins bookended by Habs wins.
The nails in the coffin for both the Pens and the Bruins were the result too many men penalties.
The Flyers came back from 3-0 in the series and 3-0 in the game.
The hockey gods are drinking moonshine and playing Yahtzee and are clearly not monitoring this shit with a sober eye.
You know how patterns can be disturbing and entrancing when you're drunk. . .?

Who are you rooting for?
What about Hawks/Sharks?
Feel free to rant in the comments.
Maybe some news about the Big Changes to PH in the next couple days.

Also, if you're not already pumped about Consol you're not a Pens fan.

(as always)

Thursday, May 13, 2010

merci, bitches

The first thing we want to say is Thank You.
Thank you to Mellon Arena. Words can't express the amount of memories that have been made within its walls, on its lawn, in front of its gates--both hockey-related and otherwise.
Thank you to the Pittsburgh Penguins, the management and organization, and every single fan who supported this team this season and in all years previous.
The previous sentence does not apply to the people who left the arena and the lawn tonight during a Game fucking 7.
It poured ass rain for awhile, yeah. And then the team went down 4-zip.
But you were witnessing history. Plant your ass in the seat and scream so loudly and so long that your insides burn and you're about to puke. The building, the team, the entire city of Pittsburgh was counting on you to keep your heads up. It's not just a sport. You are a member of a community.
Thus, an extra special thanks to every single person who stood on their feet in the final seconds of the game and applauded both teams and the old building and everyone around and therein. If you stayed until the clock read 0.0, you deserved it.

We deserve to be disappointed after this loss, because we know what our men are capable of and we hate to see them not quite live up to their potential.
But consider this:
For the first time since April 19, 2007 we will face a morning ahead of a hockey schedule featuring teams that aren't the Pittsburgh Penguins.
What this team has accomplished in the last several years has been indescribably amazing.
In 2005-06, in case you didn't remember, the Pens went 22-46-14. Yes, you read that right.
In 2007 they made the playoffs.
In 2008 they had a magical run to the Finals, and we all believed, though those of us that had taken time out of our lives to understand the game of hockey and the workings of an NHL season (and the mercurial tendencies of the hockey gods) knew that before you win anything in a meaningful way, you have to suffer for it.
And so the Red Wings raised Stanley on Mellon Arena ice, the only Cup ever to be raised under the dome--the rickety seats and sticky floors have seen enough champions and legendary names to fill a book, but only one Cup.
And that was the battery acid in the Pens' veins that took them back to the Wings to raise Stanley in 2009. Against any other team, it would have been great. But that series, against that team?
Like we said when it happened, Hollywood couldn't have made it more perfect.
Last year, everything was right, even when it was wrong--the late winter's drama of the coaching change and being desperate to even squeeze into the eighth seed made the victory that much more fucking cinematic. We did it.
Maybe this year, everything was wrong, even when it was right. The fact that Sid was a beast, that our supporting cast was generally flying around like madmen (Dupes, Rupper, etc.) and Jordan Staal's defensive work finally got recognized in a Selke nomination.
We all know that in this series, the amount of bounces that could have gone the Pens' way instead of the Habs' to turn the tables completely could be counted on one hand. It was close.
Right, but wrong.
Can't win it every year. The hockey gods have other things in mind.

When Brent Johnson took to the net and made the huge saves he needed to make, you felt the comeback.
We almost had it.
But someone let that little fucking shithead Brian Gionta do something again:
Moving along. . .

Ted Leonsis got a lot of shit for saying that the Caps had arrived earlier this season over some completely meaningless thing that we can't remember and never constitutes "arrival" in anybody's book.
Rightly so.
We, however, can confidently say without getting shit from anyone that matters that the Pens, despite losing in the semis this year, have "arrived" in the sense that they've actually won something and proven that they are a perennial playoff contender with the potential to not only make the playoffs, but go home with the Stanley Cup.
We know what they're capable of.
This might be another tough offseason, but our core remains intact.
And say what you will about the Pittsburgh Penguins:
They helped to make the game exciting in a post-lockout NHL with an uncertain future.
They're a great team.
They wrote an amazing script for the world of hockey these past few years. They're an exciting team to watch. They've been dominant.
It's no wonder people are sick of us. They've been everywhere lately.

Not only that, but they are like a second family to many of us. It's basically a known fact that the Penguins locker room is one of the best environments in all of sports. These guys are pretty much all buddies who care about each other during the season and their friendly attitudes rub off on us. When guys like Brooks fucking Orpik (whose gaze usually sears flesh) stay after the last playoff game to sign autographs for way too many crazy people clogging up the sidewalk on Centre Avenue, you know something special is going on.
They give us a lot.
And if you're a Pens fan in Pittsburgh, you know that you could always head to the arena, and there was a good chance some of your friends would be there, too, to cheer on the same team, the same second family.
If you were there tonight, you're still half-deaf.

We're probably going to stay away from the hockey media for a few days, except for like, Pensblog. We recommend you do the same if you don't want to see people ramming Halak's dick down their throats.
Or maybe you do.
You can still watch a little hockey. Pick your teams, folks. Take a look at your fantasy rosters. Make some new friends. Have a picnic.
For the first time since April fucking 19th, 2007. . .

For the team, for everyone who is proud to be a Penguins fan across the world.
For Pittsburgh, because we know that it's the best city in the world (because we don't feel the need to cause massive civil disturbances every time someone on one of our sports teams takes a shit), and that our hockey team is top notch.
Have a good summer, boys.
Rest up.
You've been busy a long, long time.
We're disappointed, but we're not mad.
Because we know:
We'll be back.
Hold on to your fucking hats.

Remember what they say: there's no shortcut to a dream.
It's all blood and sweat, and life is what you manage in between.

Thank you also to YOU, the readers of PH, for making this season that nearly ripped our lives apart memorable, rewarding, and glorious.
Our love for you is so boundless that it's probably kind of creepy.
But you're our favorites.
Thank you.


and a P.S.
only player to come out of the arena with his beard still in full bloom?
Maxime Talbot.

late edits:
1. Be sure to check the new banner, it represents our souls.
2. If there wasn't a little jobbing of the opposing team in this post, we wouldn't be good Pens fans. And Montreal riots are stupid. Not arguing over that point.
go pens

Wednesday, May 12, 2010


No one season is ever the end.
There is always a fresh start to be had, there is always a future.
Mellon was bookended by Habs wins?
So fucking what. She hosted some of the best players that the ice has ever seen. She played home to hockey history. She was where Mario Lemieux grew his wings and where Sidney Crosby grew up. Fuck single games, trophies, all that shit. She saw practices, she saw playoffs, she showed us the road to the Cup enough times that we will remember her forever as our home. She was where the sweat and blood was. She was the behind-the-scenes, the reason we could win those Cups on the road.

Consol will be bookended by Cups. One for us, one for our children, and plenty for both in between. And then, well, Lemieux Gardens will see a Cup every goddamn year, as any sane person would suspect.
Dry your tears.
Our team needs a rest.
We have fought and struggled and now it is time for rest.
Next year we will win the Cup back.
The year after, we will defend it.
And as always, the Pens are never losing again.

Go Pens.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

the aftermath: the mind of Max Talbot.

These notes collected from the field in the hours after the Game Six loss of the Pittsburgh Penguins to the Montreal Canadiens, from the subject Maxime Talbot. All original statements have been preserved, be they broken or entirely incomprehensible. We can neither confirm nor deny that these statements are authentic, nor that they even exist. Let your heart decide. Proceed with caution.

Tried to undress, got lost somewhere between my elbow and shoulder pads. Couldn't find MAF for traditional after-game conference. The Penguin emblem on the floor is staring at me, watching my every move, judging. Have the walls always been this color? I think GoGo is talking at me but all I can hear is the roaring of my soul escaping through every orifice.Will the sun ever rise again over this great nation?

Found MAF and Brent lost in the runway trying to conference call John Curry from Lapierre's winning puck. Tried to help them back to the locker room, instead ended up in the parking lot. Had to walk back inside before the screaming became too loud. The female security guard at the door groped me as we walked back inside. I tried to take a look at at her breasts but the sudden smell of breakfast food overwhelmed me into blindness.
She then whispered in my ear;
"It's all in your mind, Max."
I didn't know if she meant the breakfast or the screaming.

Made it to the bus. I saw TK fogging the window with his breath and drawing something. A pony, no doubt. Its name was EM PLEH, spelled in all caps 'neath its prancing hooves. I wondered if he had an uncle em pleh. I might have, once.
Malks is screaming into a telephone and I can't catch much. I listen for "Красивые туфли, хочешь ебать", one of 7 useful Russian phrases I have learned in my time here.
Apparently, however, no one has nice shoes and no one wants to fuck.
I fear the worst thing has happened. I can't be too sure just now, as I'm not yet sure what that is.

We have reached the hotel. I found my bags, with some help from Billy G. He seemed incredibly aware of what was happening around us, so I tried to ask him for some instruction. Before I could reach out to grab his shoulder he disappeared through the door in the corner of the room.
I must find him before dawn.
I must find what he knows.
Right after I find the alcohol.

Fleury is at the minibar, still wearing his mask, telling a transvestite that being the person he wants to be is a beautiful thing. He slams his palms down on the faux mahogany (I've got the real shit on the front of my house) as he repeats the words; bea-utiful thing, bea-utiful thing! There is a man in the corner of this room wearing a porkpie hat and numerous fat rings; he speaks no English or French save to insist that he is my chauffeur, my loyal chauffeur. This rum tastes expensive, at least.

My chauffeur is smoking a cigar while leaning up against his green '98 Ford Windstar, watching Fleury and I in silence. Marc has still not taken off his goalie mask. We are crying on our knees in the middle of a Taco Time parking lot, clutching one another, brought to the lowest imaginable depths by this day. Mercedes, the Ibizan stripper we got through Chelios' guy in Montreal, does a line of coke off of the truck and hands the chauffeur a slip of paper, looking somewhat quizzically at the two of us, sobbing in manly solidarity. Through the whiskey haze, a thought comes to me, slowly. "Marc," I whisper, choking back manly tears. MAF looks up at me helplessly, like a puppy that's been hit with too many speeding masses of plastic. "Marc, call Veronique. It's like 4 in the fucking morning, dude." I see that he manages to get back into the lobby and then look at my chauffeur, still propped up against the van. "Take me somewhere where I can still get a drink."

HOUR 7 (Maxed Out)
I had not noticed before, the brass cage in the passenger seat, that it had a small hummingbird who was trying to tell me a Secret all along. I cannot understand this secret; I am not a fucking bird. I once did a girl who had pictures of birds on her bedroom walls, back in my salad days. The fact of the birds changed nothing about my performance, which was stellar. Remember when I scored those two goals, game 7, the Red Wings? (That's what I said while I Superman-ed her in the room with the birds. I have slept with thousands of women, leaving the possibility of billions of women more to sleep with.)

My chauffeur does not respond to requests to know the bird's name, replying instead by motioning to the cooler in the back of the van stocked with an appeasement of white wine and Breakfast Breaks,© which is apparently like Lunchables for children whose mothers don't believe in God. I feast gratefully all the same, slowly losing consciousness as my chauffeur turns off of the highway. I can hear myself mumbling, "Fuck the Canadiens, man. Just fuck em." My chauffeur makes a noise that I know to be agreement. I am blessed to have such a loyal chauffeur.

We are back at the Holiday Inn. I wonder if I will find Billy G.

Billy G has found me instead; he was waiting on the purple couch in the lobby. He has cuts on his face and, I can't be sure, but I think he is missing a tooth he wasn't missing four hours ago. I ask what has happened and he tells me to only open my mouth if I have given up all will to live.
I contemplate if feeding the goldfish is worth living for, but he speaks before I come to a conclusion.
"Max. Drink from this."
I take the bottle, not questioning, familiar with its contents. Billy G takes me by the shoulders, and shakes. Everything starts to clear. I wonder where I have been, how long it has been this way, who my chauffeur was and where my wallet has gone.
I imagine the last two would be answered at nearly, if not exactly, the same time.
"It's IN THE AIR, Max. It's your fucking Canadian air. It's turned on us."
I gasp. Suddenly it's unclear again.
"Drink more. It helps. Sid is getting some of the others. It's been difficult. We just have to make it to the morning when we board the plane."
I poke the snake from its previous position blocking the liquor. I drink.
"Follow me."

We stumble into a room at the back of the hotel, somewhere behind the kitchen. Everyone is there, even Marc. His mask is on the frozen ground next to him, and I realize it is cold. We are in the walk-in freezer. Gonch is standing next to me, shaking his head, muttering "Goddamn this country" for reasons I can't discern, but won't take offense to just now.
Sid is standing on a stack of boxes, wielding a meat hook, glaring at us.
A hush falls over the room.
"Did you think this would be easy?"
No one dares speak.
A cough. A shuffle.
"You. Cookie. Did you think this would be easy?"
Cookie looks at his feet. There is a long silence. Sid glares some more. "I's the Habs."
Sid nods and turns to me. "Max, you? Did you think it would be easy?"
I squint. I may no longer be under the influence of Canadian air but I still have a base level of confusion to deal with. "Uhh...yeah, it was just the Habs."
"THIS WAS NOT A SERIES AGAINST THE HABS" Sid screams. He steps down to speak at our level. "This was a series towards the Cup. Which, if you've forgotten, we are DEFENDING. Is this the defense you give what you worked your life to earn, boys?"
Everyone stands, stunned.
"No. It isn't." It comes from the back corner of the room. We all turn. Brooks. "We fought to win this motherfucker, and we're fighting to keep it."
Sid nods. "We have one game left. One game to prove it all. This isn't a game agains the Habs, or against Canadian fanboys. This isn't against anyone. We aren't out here fighting because we hate something, we're out here fighting because we love something. This game is for Pittsburgh. For the Stanley Cup. One game, for Curry, for Country, for our fans, for ourselves. For Mellon fucking arena."
The room falls into dead silence.
"For Mellon Arena," Rupp agrees.
"For Mellon Arena," Kunitz.
I get into the spirit. "FOR MELLON FUCKING ARENAAAA!" I expect the others to join in. Instead, there is another hush, this time as the freezer door opens and a suited man walks in.
"For Civic Arena."
Mario smiles, and nods towards Sid.
Sid smiles, nods back, and in unison we all scream; "FOR CIVIC ARENA"

Back in my own bed. Tremendous hangover. No recollection of returning. MAF is on my sofa. He stumbles over to the refrigerator and finds nothing but some expired gourmet mustard. He vomits on his shoes, in a noncommittal way. I start laughing so hard that fruit punch comes out of my nose. It is Tuesday. It is unlikely that any of my goldfish are still alive.
While many events in the past 20 hours remain unclear, such as the blinding headache, the small number "2" written on my right foot, and the tooth I found in my pocket, I remember the moment in the meat freezer with resounding clarity.
MAF looks over at me as I try to separate marshmallows from cereal.
"For zee Mellon."
I nod, now understanding my duties completely.
"For the Civic."
Tomorrow, we march forward.

It's time we remember what it's like to fight.

Special thanks to Jon (Grower of The Official PH Playoff Beard) for his writing skillz and general contributions, and to TheGoonBlogger fo his wisdom and input.

Go Pens.

It has begun.

Sometimes our lives are ending.
Sometimes we just need time to rally the troops.
Stay tuned. Tonight.
Shit's about to get inspirational up in here.

Monday, May 10, 2010

you wouldn't believe what i've been through

Sorry no post yesterday. Yesterday the Canucks told the Blackhawks to stfu for a hot second:
The Blackhawks, while not taking kindly to this message, definitely still have something to prove.
It's still a series, kids.

Also, Shane O'Brien:
Byfuglien's stick decided to be fat and get him in the face. They put some glue between his eyes, stitched him him, and he played the rest of the game with no visor, no shield. Good boy.

Tonight, our boys are in Montreal.
Everyone's still waiting for Sid and Geno to have a signature night.
In a conversation with some of our advisors, we recalled that Malkin as Conn Smythe winner really wasn't 100% evident until his hat trick in Game 2 of the Canes series. And even then, a bad Finals would have thrown the whole thing into question.
Who's Conn Smythe this year?
Maybe tonight's performance will help.

Philly@Boston tonight too.
The general consensus is "let these two beat the hell out of each other; then we can have at the one who bleeds less."

Saturday, May 8, 2010

washing the filth off of the devil's hide

The Pens did everything right and came through with a win tonight.
Montreal played a good game, to the point that the Canadiens are capable of playing a good game, but it was pretty obvious that in both work ethic and talent they were outmatched this evening.
If it weren't for Halak's general solidity since Game 1, the Habs probably aren't in this.
That, and Mike Cammalleri thinking that he's a hockey player.
The Pens have a chance to end these shenanigans on Monday. Spring in Quebec is still pretty chilly. You know, like in the D. We'd try to keep it that way, but the Habs fans will probably light something on fire to keep warm.


The second-best moment of the first was when Mike Rupp managed to get a puck like, inside Halak's helmet and hit him in the ear. Not funny if he gets hurt, but funny since he got over it like a man, and stayed in the play like respectable hockey players do.Maybe it was a spell for dispersing Slovak Magic.
The real reason that the collective Ukraine Train was made to sit was that the energy fields were getting mixed up.

Fleury makes a few good saves. Halak makes a few too. When Josh Gorges does something stupid, the Pens PP takes the ice.
No one hits the net for about a minute. Malkin starts charging around, sends the puck to Letang. Letang sensually blasts the puck past Halak for the official Best Moment of the Period.
KTang sends an arrow to the stars, much like Luc Bourdon used to do.
We're also dedicating this goal to PH Staff Member and Unicorn Advisor Allison, because we can.
If you shine a blacklight on that goal celebration, believe it or not, this is what you see:

Kunitz takes some other penalty at the end of the period but it's whatevs.

The second is the Evgeni Malkin Demolition Company bringing in the wrecking ball. Shift after shift he's having all kinds of sex with the puck. Halak keeps his erection long enough to stop him. But he went all soft when Malkin banged around for awhile and made some room for Letestu to thread it back to the point.
Orpik to Gonchar to FUCK YOU.
The crowd spends the rest of the period remembering last season's Conn Smythe performance from Malkin. There were shades of it.
Blahblahblah Pens get a PP. Not much happening on that.

You feel comfy heading into the third, and with good reason: the crowd is in it, the boys are in it.
Early on a Letestu vs. Halak moment moves in slow motion. You think it's a goal. But Halak's glove has other ideas.
It happened so fast no one even took a picture. Sucks.
Both teams play all kinds of defense. Letang makes the kind of strong plays and shot-blocking that have the ladies everywhere salivating.
Montreal pressures a little but it's whatevs.
On a power play and with the net empty, Mike Cammalleri jizzes one in with about 30 left.
It's whatevs. We had some of our agents look at the goal and they informed the Canadiens that it was meaningless.
Can you spot the ominous object in this photograph?
Habs should've known they were done for.

Fleury with another bounce-back game.
epic jobbing of Gomez
epic jobbing of this puck
As Mark Eaton displays, there are moments when the Epitome of American Heroism can merge with the Quebecois.
We have no hatred for Quebec, Montreal, or their people.
In the unforgettable words of Ilya Bryzgalov, it's hockey, you know? It's only game!
We have a fucking hockey team to beat.
We have unicorn power, championship goaltending, and all kinds of wrecking crew members lurking in the wings. Craig Fucking Adams especially was owning the world today.

Finish it.

a P.S. for San Jose, currently tied with Detroit at 1 near the end of the 2nd:
Finish them
Go Sharks.

San Jose stepped up, Detroit didn't. Fuck the haters.
For all of those moments when the hockey media said not to count the Wings out even though they were playing like petulant children.
Joe Thornton is hoarse and creeping on Lindsay Soto on Versus and it's sexy as balls.
So cold in the D.

And now the Sharks enter the ring of Potential Enemies. Sorry lads.

it's as the gods willed it

Boston wasn't going to sweep Philly. Just wasn't going to happen.
And we needed another OT winner from somebody whose life had been ruined to make these playoffs more touchy-feely than they already were.
Shit, Simon Gagne. Just whatever.

This game can also be remembered for its continuation of a stunning playoff performance by the Recchin' Ball.
Oh Mark Recchi.
We want you and your beautiful soul.

Canucks has a sad.

Tazer has a happy.

A late acknowledgment on our part of the issue that is Dustin Byfuglien.
Basically he is an idiot and a fatass.
The thing is, he's neither Osgood Fat nor Rick Nash Fat. We don't know what kind of fat he is. Has he made his own kind of Dustin Byfuglien Fat?
Help us out.

Tomorrow is Game 5 at Mellon Arena, an important chance to get ahead in this series.
We can break him. Play with confidence. Traffic around the net. Desperation.
We cut our teeth on desperation.

What else to say?
Get it done.
Tie series are not things we like to see, unless we're the ones who came back to tie them.
Oh, and San Jose better get it done, too, or there will be hell to pay.

Fuck the comebacks we didn't authorize.

Friday, May 7, 2010

sometimes we need to relax.

The playoffs are still on.
The war is pending.
Let's take a breath before we have to go into full-on battle mode.There. Don't you feel better now?

Srsly though, we're back at square one again. And to be honest, we weren't too fuckin' worried at square one.

Are you taking deep breaths?
Look at that jacket. Wtf.

We all need to relax and have another drink and just take this time to focus all of our energy, sort all of our lucky clothes, and prepare our most biting insults for Habs fanboys. The big guns may have to come out soon.
Let's take advantage of the calm and prepare for the storm.
Hope for the best, prepare for the shitshow.

Eric Godard approves.
Do you have any idea how littered our hard drives are with absurd photos? We could fill books and books.


Cappy will come out of the so-called "slump" he has been in and start tearing souls from the sniveling bodies of lesser men.
Remember the power.

Unlike Cappycakes, this post is half-assed, we know.
Talking about real things comes tomorrow, when the final papers of the semester have been turned in.
But this is what you need now.
Take it to heart.
We love you.

Go Pens.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

more of the same

One of these men had a hat trick:

He's the one with the face you make when you steal a 3 year old's ice cream cone.

Big Buff was moved to Jonny T's line and blossomed like the beautiful flower that he is. Twin Power was neutralized by La-Z Boy Levitation. Even Niemi was impressed, and he sees this shit in practice every day.

The librarian with the excessively seasonal tapestry engulfing her neck is my kind of gal. Face for the ages.

All five of the Blackhawk's goals were scored off rebounds. This was not Berto's night.

Hawks lead the series 2-1.

Bruins - Flyers was a shitshow. Too many parties, Leadership. Satan will show you how to get it done:

Yeah, buddy. Six game point streak, whaaa?

Philly is displaying an unexpected side effect of being forced to neglect shaving. They feel pretty, oh so pretty.


I like what you did there, Arron. It's very understated with the black matte. Team color, natch. No bows, so they won't confuse you with the Ice Girls.


Hartnell, you fat, fat, fat, fuck. This is not what Jack White had in mind when he sang Little Acorns. Your problems do not hide in your curls.


JStaal had a full practice Wednesday.
7 PM: Mtl, can you feel the Justice?


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Puck Huffers by Kimberly Davidson and Zoë Hayden is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.