That's it! You, with the remote, you're outta here! You think you can yell at me through your TV and get away with it?
How DARE you argue with my strike zone. I don't care that you have a clever little graphic on your screen to tell you where the zone is, you unprofessional maggot. This is MY GAME, and you're playing by Country Joe's rules.
Don't bother with your "analytics" and your phony computers that slander me and my fellow umpires. I don't care, and I don't want to see them. All I want is for you to shut the hell up and leave my game, snowflake.
You think that your computers can replace me? You think your fans will flock to the field to watch HAL 9000 do my job? Good luck with that, pal. You can cry into your screen all you want, because I'm going nowhere. I've watched players come and go. I've tossed hundreds of managers. But me and my brothers are the thin Blue line that keeps this game going.
When you argue with my strike zone, you're spitting on the legacies of a century's worth of umpires.
You can't have baseball without us. So sit your pansy-ass down, and flip the channel. You're gone.