Dedicated to the comic strip by Weingarten and Clark.
The Thought Police are already on to you.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Pinky?"
There could be no greater betrayal.
However you look at it.
And it was a pitching machine that threw the ball.
Automated batters are next.
In the words of Doctor Samuel Johnson,
"No, Madam, you smell, I stink."
The line of succession stops at that station.
Go big or go home.
Looks like unnecessary roughness.
Seems pretty offensive.
He is fit to be tied.
Or to throw a fit.