"You know, Throgg, I have a horrible admission to make," Lolegolas said as he sat carefully on the stone steps of Dalaran. "Lately, my badassery hasn't felt up to snuff. It's just felt ... abbreviated. Mitigated, if you will."
"Mitigated, huh?" Throgg responded. His tongue pushed the the bridge of his glasses higher on his crooked nose. "Your gloves be the problem."
"Sometimes," Lolegolas said slowly, "I'm afraid to ask what you mean by these things. And I don't mean like 'I'm afraid I must ask you to pass the grey poupon.' But deeply, deeply Crying Game afraid of what I'm about to find out."
"Oh nothing like that, little man belf," Throgg responded. "But look at these! These are the Gloves of Unmitigated Badassery."
"Wait, what?" the blonde hunter said. "They were actually allowed to name something the Gloves of Unmitigated Baddassery?"
"I don't see why not," Throgg replied. "It isn't an untrue claim. These gloves are unmitigated in their badasseriness."
"When did you master multisyllabic words?" Lolegolas asked, while buffing his fingernails with the finest pumice stone.
"The gloves, belf! They're not only full of stamina, but also agility. That's another word for flexibility," Throgg claimed.
"Not ... really ... but okay ..."
"And, the best thing" Throgg exclaimed. "Hit rating! And hit's hot!"
"Hit's hot to the hot hit hitter with the hit hot hitting and the hot hit."
"Nice, Throgg," Lolegolas confirmed. "Hitter's delight. Real nice."