QwQ 32B vs Gemini 3.1 Pro Preview
Compare QwQ 32B by Qwen against Gemini 3.1 Pro Preview by Google AI, context windows of 40K vs 1.0M, tested across 15 shared challenges. Updated February 2026.
Compare QwQ 32B by Qwen against Gemini 3.1 Pro Preview by Google AI, context windows of 40K vs 1.0M, tested across 15 shared challenges. Updated February 2026.
10 challenges
Tests an AI's ability to understand game rules and strategy
Tests an AI's ability to solve a simple but potentially confusing logic puzzle
Answer: Sally has \boxed{1} sister.
Sally has 1 sister.
Here is the breakdown:
Tests an AI's humor and creative writing ability
3-Minute Stand-Up Comedy Routine (No Puns!)
Eric's Stage Entrance:
(Wearing a jersey-sweatshirt combo while clutching a cup of instant coffee)
Opening:
Alright, admit it—ever tried talking to tech support in Hindi? I did, once. The woman on the line asked, "What's the issue, sir?" I said, "The line is delayed, like a stalker of my call waiting." She said, "Mr. Burrows, hold while I transfer you…" and then conjugated every form of the verb "wait" in Hindi. I was still waiting when I sold my router on eBay.
Dating Apps:
Speaking of waiting, dates now start on apps where, "We found you!" like we're shoppers at a lost dog shelter. And honestly, relax. No entitlement to happiness through an algorithm. But then DMs hit… "Greetings, my name is Ronaldo. Passport, job, Tinder premium." Not even a "Hi, how're you?"—starts with his résumé. Talk about overqualified.
Parenting Moment:
Kids are philosophers now. My niece asked me once, "Why do grown-ups say 'Put that down,' but then say 'Look at this magazine?'" And I was like, "Ah, adult hypocrisy is complicated." She responded, "Oh, so it's okay if I copy Dad's TikTok swiping?" Uh-oh, frickin' Nietzsche in a dinosaur onesie.
Post-Workout Hustle:
Ever seen the new "plank squad" at your gym? These are people who do planks so hard they forget to lift their faces… and accidentally their dry-erase boards read, "Meet the Joneses—Zoom backdrop only." Meanwhile, some plank in sweatsuits go drive-thru, order coffee, and bark, "I'll take a 32 oz Almighty Latte… and a quarter of a kale salad as a 'therapeutic exchange,' thanks!"
Grocery Horror:
Self-checkouts are the new therapists. You do this inventory: "Was this taxed? Does the receipt deserve a trophy? Do I feel accomplished?" And then some Karen's like, "Oh no, it won't scan! Maybe… pray to the iPhone gods?" Suddenly, you're narrating the bagging process like a 90s MTV vlogger: "Okay, let's nestle the constrictions—uh, cucumbers—gently in the basket. Let me just add drama to my leftovers."
Dining Delight:
Restaurants now train waiters to yell, "Who's with this lookin'-like-a-corpse patient?! Suppaaa, losers! Time to share tables!" So you're sipping your $12 kale smoothie next to someone whose meatloaf got a restraining order. I bet 90% of conversations start, "Welp, our life choices led us here." Dinner now feels like a support group for people who hate napkins.
Closing with a Callback:
And the kicker? Just came back from my parent's Thanksgiving—Mom's like, "Why're you here, Eric? The mailman had issues with my candles." Dad? Mute in a headset, screaming at a chat monitor screen. I popped in, said, "Relax, you've survived Christmas on diet meds before." Dad: "Wait, we did the drugs?" Mom: "You're grounded, Eric." (Pause) Okay, thanks, everybody. If you liked it… keep it open. If not… plank it.
(Emergency water chug and exit while holding a crumpled receipt like a trophy.)
This routine cycles through relatable scenarios, uses character-driven humor, and leans on absurd situations to land laughs withoutwordplay. Timing and facial expressions during the parentheticals would add extra punch!
(Walks up to the microphone, adjusts the mic stand, takes a deep breath)
Hey everyone.
I realized recently that I am my own worst enemy. Specifically, when I go to the grocery store.
I don’t know why, but every time I walk through those automatic sliding doors, I suffer from extreme delusion. I walk in saying, "I just need milk." So, I don’t take a shopping cart. I don't even take one of those little hand baskets. Taking a basket is an admission of weakness. I am a grown adult; I can carry a gallon of milk.
Ten minutes later, I am wandering aisle four, sweating, cradling three jars of salsa, a family-sized bag of tortilla chips, a bottle of bleach, and a hot rotisserie chicken. (Mimics awkwardly holding a massive pile of items against his chest). I’m walking through the store looking like I’m rescuing a family of very odd-shaped babies from a burning building. If I drop an onion, it’s gone. It belongs to the store now. I physically cannot bend down to get it without causing a landslide of dairy and poultry.
And then, you finally make it to the front, and you have to face the ultimate test of human patience: The Self-Checkout.
Who designed these things? It’s the only place on earth where you do the company's job for them, for free, and the machine still treats you like you’re pulling off a casino heist.
You scan your first item. Beep. You place it gently in the bag.
(Loud, robotic voice): "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA."
It’s a tomato! I just scanned it! The machine literally just acknowledged it! What did it think I was going to put in the bag? A live badger? I’m not trying to launder produce!
So immediately, the giant red light starts flashing above your register. The Siren of Shame. Everyone else in line is looking at you like, "Look at this criminal mastermind trying to steal a single Roma tomato."
Now you have to wait for the one employee who is guarding twelve registers. It’s always a 19-year-old named Tyler. Tyler ambles over, sighs heavily, and types his highly secure, secret nuclear launch code into the screen—which is just 1-1-1-1. He clears the error and looks at you with a mix of pity and absolute disgust.
"You put the bag down too hard, man."
Oh, I'm sorry Tyler. My apologies. I didn't realize I was handling weapons-grade cilantro. I'll be more careful next time I disarm the vegetables.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part is leaving. You paid. You have the receipt. The transaction is legally complete. But there is always that guy standing at the exit doors with a yellow highlighter.
Suddenly, even though I have done absolutely nothing wrong, I forget how to walk like a normal human being. I start walking like a cartoon burglar. (Does an exaggerated, stiff-legged, suspicious walk). I hold the receipt up to my forehead like a search warrant. "Just a guy with his groceries! Nothing to see here, officer!"
Why do I feel guilty? I literally just paid eighteen dollars for cheese, but I’m sweating like I’m smuggling it out in my socks.
Next time, I'm just starving. It's less stressful.
Thank you guys so much, you've been great! Have a good night!
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