The Case Against Andrew Olson

For those of you who don't know, Andrew Olson is my good friend from Carleton who also happens to be conquering China with me. Having friends with me during this experience is truly priceless. You have no idea how refreshing it is to be able to make a South Park joke when basic communication is a never ending struggle during the rest of your day.

That being said, I have decided to share with you all the reasons why Andrew Olson is a deusch bag of a travel partner. Don't worry, he's going to be the first person to read this.

Reason 1: Andrew sucks because he has taken on the impossible task of trying to be the only white guy who has ever been mistaken for a native China-man. For those who know him, this should come as no suprise. If it is associated with America in any way, he hates it. If it is some ancient tradition that only small pockets of rural China still practice today, he friggin' loves it. "No, you guys can go to Mcdonald's. I'm going to go find some extremely nasty food that forces me to swallow faster than I can taste because it helps me experience the real China." Go blow it out your hole! We're here for an entire year and I want a Quarter Pounder!

Reason 2: Andrew sucks because local customs often force us to get incredibly drunk, but Andrew likes to pretend he's as sober as a priest. Basically, it goes like this: when you're in rural China, you drink. You drink at lunch, you drink at dinner, and sometimes they invent new meals just so you drink at that time too. I'm not talking about a smooth glass of red wine. You can either have beer (if you're a pussy), or (if you've got a pair) the Chinese equivilent to Everclear called baijiu. I've literally been asked, "For lunch do you want alcohol or beer?" It must be noted that this is not considered to be an option. While I was eventually able to fanagle a Sprite every lunch or so, getting drunk at 1pm and getting hammered at 8pm is something that is expected of you (I'm exaggerating things slightly for dramatic effect, but the heart of what I'm saying is true). I honestly don't know how some of these people return to their jobs. The way they force you to drink is by going "glass for glass" with them. It's sort of like a game. They'll look at you, raise their glass, and pronounce "Gambei" or "Bottoms up." This isn't like cheers. Cheers is more of a celebratory option. This is more, "drink it all, or you are disrespecting me." If you put up a enough fuss, eventually people will leave you alone, but you might as well be slapping them in the face if you don't have at least a few glasses. For this reason, Andrew and I got drunk quite often. Except, like his American heritage, Andrew enjoyed pretending that he wasn't drunk. I'd be flopping in my chair, telling people how the Chinese are all "Silly Pants", while Andrew showcased perfect posture and attention, as if he were sitting front row at some lecture. Oh, I knew he was drunk! Hell, he announced it to me when he was hammered! He just never felt the need to share this new way of being in such a teactrical way as I did. What a dick!

As this picture shows, there was clearly a heavy amount of alcohol flowing that night. I mean, for christ sakes, look at that guy's red face. Seriously, click the picture for its full effect! Now, to the untrained eye, Andrew might look sober here. Namely, he still has his shirt on. Don't let that fool you however. Da man be drunk! He plays it cool, while I'm left looking like a freshman sorority pledge.

Reaons 3: Body Odor.

Reason 4: Andrew sucks because he put me through one of the most hellish experiences of my life. The story goes a little something like this. Place: Downtown Beijing. Time: 6pm. Date: I think it was a Tuesday. So Phil, Andrew, and I were wandering the streets of Beijing, looking for adventure, taking every chance that came our way, when we recieve a call from the family we were staying with, telling us to come home right away so we could all go out for dinner. At that point, I suggested we hail a cab. Cab fare, like most things in China, is very cheap and we had wandered a significant distance from the apartment complex. "No," Andrew said, "I'm a big deusch and I say that we are going to walk all the way home. I've only been here for three days, but I am positive that I know the way without any help from anyone." I was a tad bit skeptic, but I decided to see if this marvel of a man actually knew what he was talking about. And so we walked. And we walked. And we walked. We took 6 left turns in a row. We literally walked through the Beijing equivilent of someone's backyard. Every two minutes or so, as things looked more and more bleak, I would ask Andrew if we were lost. "No, no," he replied, "See that mailbox? I remember something about a blue mailbox. I know exactly where we are. We'll be home in about 45 seconds." Eventually, however, I began to doubt his fearless leadership. I suggested we take a cab. "It would only cost about two US dollars," I said. "Also, that way our host family won't continue to worry about us. In fact, I'll do your laundry for a month if you let me get a cab Andrew; that's how nice I am. You see, my feet hurt from all the volunteer work I just did and I'd really like to give them a rest." Andrew replied by saying "No! I'm the boss-man around here and I'm not going to let you do anything you want! I heard that cab drivers cut off your penis when you get in their car and I'm way too big and strong and manly to let that happen." And so it went like this for at least 6 hours. I'm sure Andrew will tell you it was more like a half hour, but seriously, that guy's a deusch. Eventually, our traveling band faced a... shall we say... interesting obstacle. I had to go to the bathroom. BAD! Like, I just drank 5 cups of coffee bad. Also, I'm not talking the cool kind of "going to the bathroom" that makes every guy proud to be one. I'm talking about the "go to the bathroom" that sucks for all genders (I can't just say it, there are kids who read this blog!). So, as you might imagine, the concept of finding a public restroom just wasn't in the cards. We had no way of asking for such a thing, plus I'd rather make out with a donkey than use a public restroom in China. It involves squatting and a kind of messiness that can only be found around a toilet. So naturally, you'd think the boys would let me get a cab and relieve myself of this (yet another version of) personal hell. OH NO! They knew exactly where they were THIS TIME! I was about to pop (from anger I mean). At that moment, I was incredibly miserable and flustered to the point where I decided it needed to be documented. I made this decision so that Andrew could remember 20 years from now, just how pissed off I was at that time. This is the product of that documentation:

This picture has become affectionately known as my "poop face". If you look closely you can actually see my brain transforming Andrew from a friend to an enemy. Now we eventually did get home, (inspiring the quote from Phil, "If you get to where you are going, you are never lost,") and I did manage to destroy the host family's toilet in time. However, when we first arrived, our host mother promptly asked, "Why didn't you guys just take a cab?" I nearly crapped my pants, litera--ahh you get the idea.

Reason 5: Andrew sucks because he spoiled the one chance that I had to take revenge upon his soul. This was it! This was fucking it! After all those times of having Andrew shove his far superior skills with the Chinese language in my face! After all those times of watching him scarf down goat intestine, while I desperately searched for the sweet and sour pork. After all those times where he dressed like he going to meet the President of China and I was left looking like a boob in my Co-ed Naked Bullriding shirt (please tell me you know this is a joke). This was fucking it! You see, one morning we were all riding in a van, off to some strange govornment location that I'll talk about in a different post, when all of a sudden it became very apparent that Andrew had too much to drink the night before. I was doing fine on the other hand. I let everyone believe that this was because of my high tolerance, when in reality it was because I yacked up a boot the night before in the privacy of my own hotel room. Andrew, on the other hand, was left clenching his stomoch and had to eventually request that the van pull over. He hopped out of the van and I hopped out right behind him. I had to witness this--Andrew the super traveler was about to be reduced to the stupid American that couldn't hold his baijiu. I had my camera waiting. I was going to relish in this moment. Guess what? It never happened! Instead, I was left with this:

FUCK YOU Andrew Olson! Look at that stupid ass face! The bitch of it all is that I think the other people in the van thought he had just hopped out for a pee break or something. He ruined it. He ruined my moment for redemption. That picture is quite literally 2 seconds after he was hunched over, ready to blow. My camera was supposed to capture that blowage, not some Fonzi pose! Eh-Yi (that's the Fonz's "Hey").

So there you have it, the top 5 reasons why Andrew Olson is a deusch bag of a travel partner. I'd list more, but the internet only has so much bandwith to spare.

This is very important to note: in my next post, I will tell (what I find to be) a VERY funny story about how I actually did manage to get my revenge on Andrew Olson. It involves 200 Chinese people and the word cunt. Stay tuned for that one!

Thomas Henry Helgen

P.s. You fuckers better comment! No joke. As I told Caitlin Johnson very drunkenly the night before: blog comments are my love food. I need them to survive.