THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES 

I found myself seated on a couch in the Oval Office, opposite a coffee table littered with Big Mac wrappers, empty Coke cans, and crumpled KFC buckets. Scattered across the floor were multiple copies of The Art of the Deal, as if casually placed for dramatic effect.

In the corner, a man dressed in traditional robes stood from a prayer mat, nodded politely, and exited in silence. Without missing a beat, the President dismissed the visiting Saudi crown prince with a belch and a wave.

“Say hi to the wives, Mohammed,” he said. “And don’t forget—we’ve got that Egypt meeting next week to wrap up the Middle East peace deal and finalize the golf resort in Riyadh.”

Then he turned to me, narrowing his eyes. “So… who are you, man?”

The panic inside surged, but I somehow managed to get my words out: I was on a mission to track down the elusive Melbourne football superstar, Christian Petracca, and convince him to return with me.

“You’re from Australia? No way!” he said. “I once hung out with Ivana there… just kidding, it was a riverboat on the Danube. Gorgeous castles. Looked like a Disney movie. Here, have a chicken wing.”

After gently correcting his geography, he poured me a neat whiskey to calm my nerves and launched into an impromptu monologue about marsupials and his Australian fiscal adviser—a man who believes a nation’s economy can be tracked through the price of a large McDonald’s fries. Eventually, he circled back to the matter at hand.

His Australian associates—Mr. Kanga and Mr. Roos—were waiting outside to be buzzed in. But first, some pressing international business.

“Call the Latvians. I’m slapping a 10% tariff on their automotive industry. Effective midnight.”

A pause.

“What? They don’t have an automotive industry? Fine. Put it on Bulgaria instead and make it 15%. Take it or leave it, buddy. And send a bottle of our best champagne and a box of Havana cigars to Bibi. Now send in the Aussies.”

They entered the room like characters from The Blues Brothers—sunglasses on, boots polished, radiating theatrical flair, minus the dance moves and musical talent.

I recognized Roos immediately—a familiar figure from years past. I recalled he’d lived in the U.S. with his American wife. Naturally, he led with football:

“I’m the strategic thinker behind the ‘no dickheads, no disruptors’ policy. We’ve resolved the Petracca and Oliver situation. They’re out. We stage managed their exit with the media and brought in fresh talent—solid citizens committed to the Demons, who won’t break the salary cap, and have no social media presence.”

He ticked off names with confidence.“Jack Steele and CJ are both humble and unassuming characters. Big Maxy Heath—can’t cook, but who cares? Brody Mihocek goes to church on Sundays when he’s not playing. Plus, a bag of draft picks to play with. Your recruiting team are going to feel like pigs in shit.

“So bid a fond farewell to those departing, send your appreciation for their past deeds, thank them for the memories and wish them success in their future pursuits. Tell them you’re embarking on a new trajectory, unencumbered by nostalgia for past accomplishments and no longer looking backwards”. 

The President nodded in approval, noting how the approach was considerably more elegant than in his father’s day—when favours might’ve involved a quiet word with the Gambino family.

Then Kanga stepped in to outline the business model:

“We’ve secured a new home base—prime real estate opposite Caulfield Station and right near the racetrack. Top-notch potential for training facilities. The only catch? It’s currently a parking lot. But development’s no problem—we’ve got the finance lined up. There’s a minor hiccup in transferring some real estate in the south east to make way for the Trump Casey Country Club, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

And just like that, my time in the Oval Office ended. I was ushered out onto Pennsylvania Avenue—disoriented, slightly buzzed, but filled with renewed hope because, after all, there’s always next season.

Maybe, just maybe, 2026 will be our year.

Go Dees!

1 hour ago, Demonland said:

THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES 

I found myself seated on a couch in the Oval Office, opposite a coffee table littered with Big Mac wrappers, empty Coke cans, and crumpled KFC buckets. Scattered across the floor were multiple copies of The Art of the Deal, as if casually placed for dramatic effect.

In the corner, a man dressed in traditional robes stood from a prayer mat, nodded politely, and exited in silence. Without missing a beat, the President dismissed the visiting Saudi crown prince with a belch and a wave.

“Say hi to the wives, Mohammed,” he said. “And don’t forget—we’ve got that Egypt meeting next week to wrap up the Middle East peace deal and finalize the golf resort in Riyadh.”

Then he turned to me, narrowing his eyes. “So… who are you, man?”

The panic inside surged, but I somehow managed to get my words out: I was on a mission to track down the elusive Melbourne football superstar, Christian Petracca, and convince him to return with me.

“You’re from Australia? No way!” he said. “I once hung out with Ivana there… just kidding, it was a riverboat on the Danube. Gorgeous castles. Looked like a Disney movie. Here, have a chicken wing.”

After gently correcting his geography, he poured me a neat whiskey to calm my nerves and launched into an impromptu monologue about marsupials and his Australian fiscal adviser—a man who believes a nation’s economy can be tracked through the price of a large McDonald’s fries. Eventually, he circled back to the matter at hand.

His Australian associates—Mr. Kanga and Mr. Roos—were waiting outside to be buzzed in. But first, some pressing international business.

“Call the Latvians. I’m slapping a 10% tariff on their automotive industry. Effective midnight.”

A pause.

“What? They don’t have an automotive industry? Fine. Put it on Bulgaria instead and make it 15%. Take it or leave it, buddy. And send a bottle of our best champagne and a box of Havana cigars to Bibi. Now send in the Aussies.”

They entered the room like characters from The Blues Brothers—sunglasses on, boots polished, radiating theatrical flair, minus the dance moves and musical talent.

I recognized Roos immediately—a familiar figure from years past. I recalled he’d lived in the U.S. with his American wife. Naturally, he led with football:

“I’m the strategic thinker behind the ‘no [censored], no disruptors’ policy. We’ve resolved the Petracca and Oliver situation. They’re out. We stage managed their exit with the media and brought in fresh talent—solid citizens committed to the Demons, who won’t break the salary cap, and have no social media presence.”

He ticked off names with confidence.“Jack Steele and CJ are both humble and unassuming characters. Big Maxy Heath—can’t cook, but who cares? Brody Mihocek goes to church on Sundays when he’s not playing. Plus, a bag of draft picks to play with. Your recruiting team are going to feel like pigs in [censored].

“So bid a fond farewell to those departing, send your appreciation for their past deeds, thank them for the memories and wish them success in their future pursuits. Tell them you’re embarking on a new trajectory, unencumbered by nostalgia for past accomplishments and no longer looking backwards”. 

The President nodded in approval, noting how the approach was considerably more elegant than in his father’s day—when favours might’ve involved a quiet word with the Gambino family.

Then Kanga stepped in to outline the business model:

“We’ve secured a new home base—prime real estate opposite Caulfield Station and right near the racetrack. Top-notch potential for training facilities. The only catch? It’s currently a parking lot. But development’s no problem—we’ve got the finance lined up. There’s a minor hiccup in transferring some real estate in the south east to make way for the Trump Casey Country Club, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

And just like that, my time in the Oval Office ended. I was ushered out onto Pennsylvania Avenue—disoriented, slightly buzzed, but filled with renewed hope because, after all, there’s always next season.

Maybe, just maybe, 2026 will be our year.

Go Dees!

Beautiful, a really beautiful thing...

We've got a Melbourne too a good guy runs that place. You have golf courses right ??

Casey...( turns to Vance ) ... get someone on that... do they have Gators there....our Melbourne....too many gators...

Hang on... its Bibi again....its always Bibi...

Pete...tell Putin we're sending some gifts his way .... might not like them... he does bad things....

Yes, we always move forward. It won’t be the same but it will be better because the distractions have been removed.