Don't even think about it.

The Thought Police are already on to you.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Pinky?"

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.