Tiger I was in a fine mood. He had a fancy new coat of zimmerit, freshy repainted iron crosses and a squeaky feeling in his tracks from the bubble bath he'd just gotten out of.
"Oh, truly this is a joyous day! Not only are the birds singing and the sun shining, but today is the day that I shall ask IS-2 to the tank prom!"
Tiger I's inadequate and easily ignited petrol motor nearly knocked when he thought of IS-2. IS-2 was so sleek and sexy with her feminine, ballistically optimized frontal armor and turret. She was so fast, she had such a low silhouette, she had dainty, field-maintainable road wheels. She had it all, and he would make her his.
Yes! For the glory of National Socialism! IS-2 would be his! He would incorporate her into his lebensraum, if you know what I mean. Or whatever it is that National Socialists are supposed to do at tank proms.
Verily! Tiger I felt a shiver of boldness that resonated all the way down the superfluous drive shaft that went from his rear hull, under the fighting compartment to his front drive sprocket when he thought about how he would wow IS-2 with his boldness. He was feeling suave, in touch with the ground, on the hunt. He could feel the hunger building up in him… hungry like… hungry like… hungry like the tiger! That was it!
And there she was! IS-2 rounded the corner! Tiger I could see the sunlight play off the textured surface of her cast frontal armor, and smell the sweet aroma of her diesel engine. The moment of truth!
"Uh, hey there IS-2, I was wondering if maybe you… you know, might, sometime want to, kinda…" Tiger I trailed off as his engine began to overheat.
"No." said IS-2.
"What?" Gasped Tiger I surprise.
"If you are asking me to tank prom, answer is no! Same as last time you asked, silly pudgy brick tank!" Replied IS-2 curtly in her charming, lilting Slavic accent.
Tiger I, lacking any sense of humor or indeed any redeeming qualities whatsoever immediately got into a huff.
"I AM THE LEGEND OF THE PANZERWAFFE! IT EVEN SAYS SO IN MY IN-GAME DESCRIPTION! WHY WON'T YOU GO OUT WITH MEEEEEE?" He screeched in such a way that inspired pity-tinged disgust. He paused to wheeze, as his low power-to-weight-ratio tended to leave him panting whenever he exerted himself.
"I HAVE THE FUCKING LEGENDARY HIGH-VELOCITY 88mm FLAK GUN! I AM IMPENETRABLE TO ALLIED ANTI-TANK WEAPONS! I CAN DESTROY SHERMANS FROM KILOMETERS AWAY! I HAVE ADVANCED GERMAN OPTICS! AMERICAN TANKERS QUAKE IN FEAR AT MY NAME!" Tiger I was by this point jiggling like a fat kid to Moldovan disco.
"Oh Tiger," IS-2 giggled a little, "KwK 36 isn't that fast. In fact, using standard anti-tank ammo only has ten meters per second, or 1.25% more muzzle velocity than own 122mm cannon! And don't tell me skinnier shells giving better penetration. 122mm armor piercing high explosive and armor piercing high explosive ballistic capped shells have 27% higher sectional density than your puny over-rated 88mm APCBC shells, in addition to having twenty-four percent more kinetic energy per square meter of contact as well as one hundred forty percent more kinetic energy overall! You are puny and impotent compared to me, and I am woman! Yes, your armor hard to penetrate… to people armed with 57mm and 76mm anti-tank guns in 1942. You're just flat, slab-sided brute force machine, not sexy, mass-producible instrument of proletariat will! Only people who like you are history buffs or people who smell of cat food and pay far too much money for reproduction SS daggers and lorcin pistols to help them in coming race wars. Oh, and my optics are copies of yours and therefore just as good. "
Tiger I began to cry. It started out as a whimper, but soon it was a heaving, convulsive wailing that shook Tiger I to his very torsion bars. Sebaceous fat-kid tears rolled down his gun mantlet. He burbled and incoherent stream of imprecations, desperate compromises and pleading to IS-2, the beautiful tank that would always be too good for him.
"There there, Tiger I. I'm sure you will find date to tank prom soon! I hear that M6 Heavy does not have date yet."
"Ugh," retched Tiger I, nearly dry heaving after his previous display, "but M6 Heavy is fat, ugly and useless!"
"Like I said, right date to tank prom!"
And with that IS-2 bounced off to go on a date with T29, a big, broad-shouldered American heavy whose very glance sent her into paroxysms of girlish tittering. This left Tiger I all alone to contemplate his wretchedness.
Tiger I was all alone in the world and he would never get the love he wanted. He was slow, ugly, undergunned, under armored and overcomplicated. He was a loser. He decided he would end it all and drive off a cliff.
Tiger I accelerated to his lumbering 30 KPH flank speed and tried to drive off the cliff. He closed his eyes for the moment of suspension, followed by sweet, sweet release from this earthly vale of tears. But cruel fate! It was still the 7.1 patch, and physics hadn't been implemented yet, so he came to an abrupt halt as he hit the invisible wall at the edge of the cliff.
Tiger I was left all alone. He spent the entire week moping at the edge of the cliff, thinking about how horrible and useless he was. He forgot all about the tank prom. Nobody came to look for him because Tiger I had no friends. In time he became one of those dark spots on the tech tree that you just free XP past. A few German armor apologists would make increasingly implausible arguments that the game was systematically biased towards Russian tanks, but in time these poor fools became just as ignored, unloved and forgotten as Tiger I.
And that ends the sad, but quite predictable tale of Tiger I. The moral of this story is don't be a crappy, poorly designed piece of junk, because RUSSIA STRONG!1111