Tiger vs. Giant: Who Would Win???

It goes without saying that, at NotGraphs, we’re dedicated to those twin pursuits of the Western Tradition, art and science. Even more than that, though, what we’re dedicated to is driving the most possible traffic with the least possible content. In conclusion: polls.

Yesterday, in these same electronic pages, the author began his attempt to answer what is less of an age-old question and more of a starting-two-days-ago question — namely, if one were to pick the winner of the World Series based entirely on the fighting prowess of each team’s mascot, who would win? That query was problematized, naturally, by the fact that there are many types of giant things. Giant rabbits, for example. And giant, disembodied eyes, for other example, washed up on Floridian shores. And giant hill figures with impressive, giant phalluses (phalli?), also.

What the author has discovered even more recently — after ruminating on the matter for, like, five seconds — is that there are different types of tigers, too. And not just different species of tigers, I mean, but, like, other nouns in the vernacular that have the word tiger and then another word altogether.

Surely, then, what is needed is multiple polls to determine the winners of multiple Mortal Kombat-style battles to determine the winner of this one, determinative query — which, that’s what’s happening now.

Results will appear in a second, sparsely worded post — sure to drive its own share of traffic — minutes before the beginning of tonight’s World Series game at 8pm ET.

Tiger Mom vs. Giant Rabbit

One is a strict Chinese mother who teaches law at Yale. The other is a German breed of rabbit that weighs 20 or something pounds.


***

Bengal Tiger vs. The Cerne Abbas Giant

One is an endangered species that hunts large ungulates such as chital, sambar, gaur. The other is a hill figure with an impressive gentleman’s instrument.


***

Tigerlily by Natalie Merchant vs. Giant Disembodied Eye

One is a 1995 album that contained three pop hits, “Carnival” (#10 on the Billboard singles chart), “Wonder” (#20), and “Jealousy” (#23). The other is a scientific mystery recently discovered on a beach in Florida.





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Carson Cistulli occasionally publishes spirited ejaculations at The New Enthusiast.


13 Responses to “Tiger vs. Giant: Who Would Win???”

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  1. MZ says:

    I voted with the minority on all counts. The majority has awful opinions, turns out.

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  2. Beau says:

    I expected more Andre the Giant

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  3. Dara says:

    TONY THE TIGER VS. JOLLY GREEN GIANT vs. Carson Cistulli’s Legal Bills From 2 Simultaneous Copyright Infringement Suits

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  4. Robert J. Baumann says:

    I voted Bengal Tiger but now I wish I hadn’t: that giant’s dong is really something!

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    • Resolution says:

      I needed no less than three hours of background research for the proposed poll candidates. I believe this is partially due to the sparsely worded post and my own insatiability. This is a long-winded way of saying that at first I was drawn to the Bengal Tiger but after researching the giant and his phallus, the decision was rather easy.

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    • Kyle says:

      That huge dong presents a rather large weak spot that the Bengal Tiger would totally scratch and then the Giant would be in just the worst pain.

      Vote -1 Vote +1

  5. Choo says:

    Raging Priapus!

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  6. Smooth says:

    I hope the Cerne Abbas Giant asked his doctor if his heart is healthy enough for sex…

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  7. War2d2 says:

    I abstained from the voting, and not from any lilly-livered, peacenik, long-haired, dope-smoking, tie-died, hippie “I’m burning my draft card which is also a bra” reasoning. No, I abstained for the simple reason that I believe there is no question as to the proper answer, vis-à-vis the victor of this thought-experiment-cum-gladiatorial-fracas.

    It’s the Tiger. It will always be the Tiger.

    Why? Let me tell you a story, one that is frighteningly applicable to this discussion.

    First, let me start by saying that I am a man of some stature. I stand an inch shy of six and one half feet tall. And while, for the great majority of my life, I have not been a girthsome individual, I am no lightweight. I say “great majority,” because impending middle age, a bum knee, and the requisite number of nightly beers necessary to keep the darkness at bay have all conspired to move me – in reference to the product line of the Levi Strauss and Co. jean manufacturer – from the “regular fit” 501 jeans, down to the “fat-assed fit” 559 jeans.

    Secondly, let me say that my cat – one Toonces B. Taylor – is not an unusually large specimen of his species. In fact, by length and (until recently, his own middle-age having caught and passed him) weight, one might even go so far as to call him a small cat. I further submit, for additional proof, that on initial inspection one Mr. T. B. Taylor would not strike fear into the heart of a man of my stature. That indeed he is also a declawed cat, his previous owner having paid a person to tear off Mr. Taylor’s first knuckle of every digit.

    To recap: I am large for my species. Mr. Taylor is not.

    Now, to the story. Mr. Taylor had escaped. His is a strictly indoor existence, due to the aforementioned clawlessness. He is not 100% “on board” with this arrangement, and he routinely will attempt an escape. Whether this involves the routine bouncing a baseball off a wall; the obtaining of various disguises that are Hessian in nature; and whether it culminates in the thrilling use of ottoman and chesterfield to jump a cat-scaled BMW motorcycle over the barbed-wire fencing I have arranged about my apartment, I cannot tell. Suffice to say, he had escaped, and not for the first time.

    I caught Mr. Taylor on the side of the residence, after he had been gone nearly an hour. He was clean and undamaged, and in reality was simply tired of his freedom and its relative lack of tuna. As I hefted him, with some irritability, and with the intent to carry him inside, the garbage truck pulled up to the residence. Mr. Taylor, being unfamiliar with garbage trucks, and considering it an imminent threat to his person, immediately freaked the fuck out.

    As regards his claws: he still has his rear claws. This will now become an important part of this narrative.

    I grew up in idyllic time, when children could, with very little supervision, trail the garbage man for several blocks around the neighborhood, watching as the truck’s pneumatic mandibles consumed the detritus of modern suburban living. Furthermore, for a time in college, while earning my keep between semesters, I even worked as a garbage man. I bring up these two points to illustrate: I was not concerned with the sudden onset of a garbage truck. As such, I was unready to reap the whirlwind that was about to be visited upon my person.

    Mr. Taylor grew in stature. I cannot say how. I am somewhat familiar with the laws of physics, the conservation of mass, E=MC^2, etc. I believe all of Mr. Einstein’s work to be of the highest caliber, and I do not wish to get into an argument over the definition of reality, or what is or is not possible. I will simply declare as fact, for the purposes of this story, that Mr. Taylor grew. And while he grew, while he gained mass, he also appeared to gain speed. Though he was, ostensibly, still – that is, not moving – in my arms, his very particles appeared to accelerate, and a white-hot light emanated from the center of his frame.

    There is always a moment that sticks in your mind. That moment you look back on, where everything appears to be quiet. Right before you dig your bike’s front wheel into the gully and to a flip over the handlebars. Right before your foot catches as you vault off a 10′ fence and land on your chin. Right before you tell your wife what you really think. Some call it the “oh shit” moment. I had a moment like that, right before.

    He levitated, off my arms. And in the process of his levitating all of the skin of both of my hands was flayed clean from the bones, and the force that added and multiplied, the force that had been excited within his very body, was expelled. A moment before I had been holding my cat. A moment after, I was holding the Hiroshima Bomb, mid-mushroom-cloud. I do not know how or why, but my cat is, apparently, constructed almost entirely of fissile material.

    When I awoke, I was bleeding, and the cat was gone. He came back, of course, because we were the ones with the tuna.

    This is why. This is why the Tiger will win in a fight with a Giant. Because I’ve already fought that fight, and I lost.

    +6 Vote -1 Vote +1

  8. Cistulli's Secretary says:

    Thank you. Your love letter to Mr. Cistulli has been forwarded to his inbox.

    Vote -1 Vote +1

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