Any you buggers remember a big-arsed glubbernudder name of Archimonde? Him an' his crew done partied the everlivin' crap outta Old Dalaran, then headed up Hyjal way. What happened to him? The orc an' human warchiefs, Thrall an' Jaina, along with Cairne an' Tyrande took they's forces, along with a buncha Vol'jin's lads, grouped up, an' knocked his punk arse down. Was the free peoples of Azeroth, an' they's leaders, against the demons an' undeads. An' they fuhggin' saved the world.
What we got now? Coupla dingleberries, Garrosh an' Varian, what be more interested in wavin' they's tallywhackers in each others' faces than they is in fightin' the real big bad. Commitin' they's best troops ta fight over a abandonized prison complex? Blowin' the mission fer ta send yer fighters ta chase after dwarves like a dog what sees a squirrel? Gimme a fuhggin' break. Meanwhiles, Deathwing sacks Stormwind, his minions burn Org, Azeroth dang near falls inta Deepholm, the big guy cruises the world toastin' anythin' what he catches in the open. I tried tellin' Garrosh he was worryin' 'bout the wrong dupperthunkers, an' he should be focusin' on how fer ta stop that dragon, but he weren't interested. 'Course, I mebbe could been a little more diplomatic, 'stead of tellin' him ta get them kodo droppins outta his skull or haul his cowardly hick arse back ta Nagrand, but I weren't feelin' none too charitables after watchin' the Earthen Ring's best and bravest buy the farm so's me and Thrall could deliver the Dragon Soul ta Wyrmrest. Kinnavieve done talked ta King Doofus, but she didn't have no more lucks with him neither.
I done spent the past five years not onlies sharpifyin' me skills, but buildin' up a team of misfits an' loose cannons what know how ta fight. We ain't pretty, we ain't famous, we ain't the sort ya bring home ta mother. Unless mom works in some stinkhole in Booty Bay, servin' Uncle Bonechomper's Day-Old Piss ta retired pirates an' washed-out Shattrath cops, then ya mebbe ya does. But I digressifies. Me point is, we know what ta do when there be a dragon what needs killin'. Ya don't go struttin' aroun' town in yer Abercrombie & Mammoth outfit, talkin' 'bout how yer a bigger badarse than that dude in that other place. No, ya go kill the dragon. Or die tryin'. 'Cause someone's gotta.
As me man Hans Gruber woulda said, "Due ta the Twilight Hammer's Legacy of doin' the nasty with elder gods, tryin' fer ta destroy the world, an' drivin' volcanoes through the houses of amazinly virile orcs, they's about ta be taught a lesson in the real use of rage. You buggers will be witnesses."