Secret Cyn.

There could be no greater betrayal.

However you look at it.

Casey at the bat.

And it was a pitching machine that threw the ball.

Automated batters are next.

That stinks.

In the words of Doctor Samuel Johnson,

"No, Madam, you smell, I stink."

Cog wheel.

The line of succession stops at that station.

Go big or go home.

On the defensive.

Looks like unnecessary roughness.

Seems pretty offensive.

Fit as a fiddle.

He is fit to be tied.

Or to throw a fit.

To sell a fat pig.

The lure of the sale is illusion.

Once hooked, it is too late.